


Gasoline

by Captain_Author



Series: Gasoline [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Brainwashing, Crossover, Gen, crossover fan fic, crossover fan fiction, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 15:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16349057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Author/pseuds/Captain_Author
Summary: Super strength on its own would take some getting used to – but now with an organization in the shadows on their trail, things are about to get tougher for the detective and his blogger with newfound powers that everyone seems to be after. *Sequel to Official Recruiter.





	1. Pain

_Are you insane like me? Been in pain like me?_

**Welcome, readers! To anyone new, I'm glad you found me but I do suggest you read my story** **Official Recruiter** **first. To anyone returning, I'm glad you're back!**

_The SIP agent standing across from John threw Grant onto the ground, aimed his gun, and pulled the trigger._

_John screamed, snapped Director Williams's neck with ease, and ran at the agent. The agent was dead – an arrow stuck out of him. John scooped the kid up into his arms. "No, no, no, no, no." The kid was limp and lifeless in the doctor's grip. "No, kid, come on, no, no, don't do this. Come on, Grant!" John's hands were red. They were red, far too red, too red, too red, too red._

_John turned around and saw the Director's body not far behind him, his head twisted at an angle it should not have been._

" _I killed him."_

John awoke with a start. He lay in bed for a moment, taking time to just breathe and calm himself down. He rolled over and took a look at the clock. Six-fifteen. He was surprised he'd lasted this long. So his nightmares were getting better at least. Well, if better meant they were occurring later in the night so when he woke in a fit of panic it was at a reasonable hour, then yeah, they were getting better.

The doctor threw off his covers and sat up. He hadn't had nightmares since before he moved in with Sherlock. His dreams about Afghanistan had just about faded along with his limp. But after watching that kid get shot right in front of him, the dreams had returned.

It had been a rough few months for John. He and Sherlock managed to take down the Superhuman Integration Program, but not without a cost. Grant was dead, Taria had been severely injured, Vi went MIA, and John was left with powers the exact replica of what Director Williams had: super-strength, bulletproof skin (but not knife proof, which SHIELD was still puzzled about), and reflexes quicker than most. The powers were supposed to have been temporary, but with Grant dead John was stuck with his new-found abilities.

It was Saturday, meaning John was to report to SHIELD's London headquarters once again for further assessment. He figured the organization would have gotten all of the readings they needed by now, but they still asked the doctor to come. It was for the better, he supposed, since it gave him an opportunity to explore his power under safe conditions.

In these past few months John had gain pretty good control over his powers. At first he'd struggled to pick up a glass without breaking it. It both annoyed and worried Sherlock to no end. John had been so scared of breaking things and hurting people he wouldn't even join Sherlock on his cases for the first two months. It pained the detective to leave his friend behind in the situation he was in, yet John refused to put anyone in danger.

But things had gotten better.

The morning went by fairly smoothly. When John stepped out of the shower he saw Sherlock scouring his website for any cases. "Still nothing?" John asked.

"It's been nearly a month," Sherlock grumbled, "and there's not a single case!"

John couldn't help but crack a grin. "You could come with me, if you want," John suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's hardly interesting. It'll be the same exact thing as every time you go!"

"You thought it was interesting at first."

"Well it quickly became monotonous," the detective complained.

"Come on, the fresh air will be good for you."

"Hardly fresh air," mumbled Sherlock. "We'd be stuck inside a SHIELD base all day."

"Getting out of the flat, I mean." Sherlock didn't respond. John sighed. "I'm sure I could talk Bill into getting you some copies of his findings." Sherlock's eyes immediately lit up. Bill was the scientist heading up the research on John's abilities. The doctor and the American scientist had quickly become friends since they were required to spend so much time together.

"And a blood sample?" Sherlock asked.

John knew it was a trap. "I never said you could have a blood sample."

Sherlock sunk back into his armchair. "Then I'm not going."

John hung his head in defeat. "Alright, fine, you can have a blood sample."

The detective leapt from his chair, running over to grab his coat. "Then let's go, John, you don't want to be late." John smiled and rolled his eyes, heading after his friend.

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John walked back into the observation room where Sherlock sat typing away at this phone and Bill was looking over some files. John sat down his water bottle and Bill looked up from the file. "Well, your strength readings are still the same." He shook his head, flipping the folder closed. "I honestly don't know why SHIELD has you keep coming here – nothing's changed."

John shrugged. "Formalities I guess."

Bill shook his head. "I guess." He didn't sound so convinced. "It looks like you're due for another blood test." Sherlock perked up and slipped his phone into his pocket. "Just one vial today."

"Two," said Sherlock. Bill looked at the consulting detective in question.

John sighed. "Sorry about that. I promised him he could have a sample."

Bill raised an eyebrow. "You promised your roommate a vial of your blood?" John shrugged and Bill began to laugh. "You guys are weird. Alright, we can do that." He gestured to the chair. "If you'll take a seat, Doctor Watson."

John sat down and Bill took out his supplies. "I also told him I could talk you into giving him some of your notes," admitted John.

"Oh, and  _can_  you talk me into it?" Bill asked, prepping John's arm.

John shrugged. "Didn't think it'd be that hard."

Bill chuckled. "Alright, I'll see what I can do." He looked over at Sherlock. "Can't give you everything though, I'm afraid. Not that you aren't allowed to look at it, we just can't let some of our findings leave this building. But I'll get you some basic readings to take home."

A few minutes later Bill finished the second sample and snapped off his gloves. "Looks like we're done here." He handed John his water bottle and a bag of trail mix. "Stay hydrated, make sure to eat, you know the drill." He waved his hand dismissively and picked up the file. "I'll go make some copies. Be right back." Bill left, leaving Sherlock and John alone.

Sherlock shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "How'd you sleep?"

John raised an eyebrow. "If you're asking I assume you already know the answer and are just unsure as to how to start a conversation regarding it."

"I'm not incapable of concern."

John sighed. "I was fine until early this morning, if you must know." He opened the bag of trail mix.

"Director Williams?"

John halted. "…And Grant."

"…Of course." The two of them sat in a tense, awkward silence. Sherlock attempted to break it. "So when do you think SHIELD will have you stop doing these ridiculous tests?"

John shrugged. "When they believe I've served my time. You do realize trying to keep my abilities a secret was punishable by suspension."

"So this is your punishment instead?"

"That's what I figured." He shook his head. "No one's really talked to me about what's going to happen. I haven't heard from Director Fury, I haven't heard from Coulson, I haven't really seen any agents other than those at the front desk and Bill. Am I still going to remain a level three agent? Am I still going to take mutant cases with you, or am I going to be doing something more?"

"Do you want to do something more?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head curiously.

John groaned. "Sherlock, god, I don't know. I-I don't know, alright?" John ran a hand over his face. "It's been over four months since I got these powers and things haven't really changed."

"Do you want them to?"

"I don't know. I just feel like they should. You know, whether good or bad, I feel like something has to happen." Sherlock nodded, eyeing his flatmate carefully.

"Of course. Makes logical sense."

The door swung open and Bill reentered with a small stack of papers in his hand. "Well, here you go," he said, handing the copies over to Sherlock. "That's all I can give you right now, but feel free to come in with John and take a look at the full file." He picked up the second vile and gave it to the detective. "And here's the sample John promised you.

At first, Sherlock said nothing, but John elbowed him. "Thank you," Sherlock muttered.

Bill cracked a smile. "'Course. Anytime."


	2. Enough

_Are you high enough without the mary-jane like me?_

 

Sherlock could be pretty hard to deal with sometimes. Scratch that – nearly all the time. John didn't mind questions about his strength and he even let Sherlock have some of his files, but John had to eventually draw the line. Sherlock kept asking John questions all too reminiscent of Williams and the Grant incident. John had asked the detective to stop bothering him, but his friend paid him no heed. The only way John could get his flatmate to stop asking questions was to leave.

So John took a walk. He figured if he was gone for long enough he could come back while Sherlock was either not there or too distracted and he could sneak up to his room without any further questions. That was the plan anyway.

Unfortunately, that plan went a little haywire.

As John walked along the street heading back to 221B he felt hands grab his arm and he was pulled into the nearby alley. His heart leapt into his throat and he ripped his arm out of the man's grip, throwing a punch.

The hit was a little stronger than John had intended. He could be careful when he wanted to, but adjusting his strength to the right levels was still a challenge for him. He was either gentle or inhumanly strong – right now there was no inbetween.

The man flew back, skidding across the ground. John halted, realizing what he'd done. The man grabbed the nearest bin and stumbled to his feet. "What on  _earth_ , mate!" He cradled his nose gently and swayed.

John reached forward. "I-I'm sorry. It was just a reflex, I'm sorry."

"That was…impressive." He walked over to John, still touching his bleeding nose tenderly.

John was still wary of the situation but was beginning to believe that most of it was a misunderstanding. "Yeah, I'm a fighter. Look, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean—"

The man waved his hand and shook his head. "Nah, mate, you're good. That's on me. I shouldn't've been so rough. I was just wondering if you could point me towards Baker Street Station."

John nodded and looked over his shoulder in the direction of the station. "Yeah, it's over by—"

Turned the other way, the man saw the opportunity. He reached into his pocket and leapt forward, plunging the needle in hand into John's neck. The doctor let out a cry and the two men fell to the ground. John threw the attacker off of him and the man hit the brick wall – a crack remained in the building.

The man fell to the ground, unmoving. John pulled down his hand and looked at the empty needle. Not good. He looked over at the unconscious attacker. Really not good.

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When Sherlock heard slow and heavy footsteps coming up to the flat, he was a bit relieved as well as intrigued. Typically when John stormed out due to annoyance he was gone for one to two hours. It had been nearly three hours since John had left 221B and Sherlock was curious as to where his flatmate had spent that time.

Then Sherlock realized something was off. The footsteps were not steady. The brief pauses, the doubling up on a single step. Something was wrong.

Sherlock turned around and saw John walk into the flat. John had a dazed look in his eyes and was swaying ever so slightly on his feet. Sherlock immediately hurried over to his friend. "John?" John didn't respond. Sherlock's eyes scanned his flatmate up and down. "Drugged. You've been drugged." John's nod was barely noticeable. "Who was it?" Sherlock led his friend over to the couch. John just about fell onto the piece of furniture.

Sherlock knelt down in front of his friend, looking him in the eye. "John, you need to tell me what happened." John didn't respond. Sherlock shook his head. "Well I can tell that you got into a fight, it happened approximately forty-five minutes ago, and they probably met the full force of your strength, but I can't tell everything." He waved a hand in front of John's face. The doctor didn't even blink. Sherlock was becoming a little unnerved. "John, answer me."

Finally, John spoke. "Didn't mean to…" The doctor's voice was almost too soft to hear.

"Didn't mean to what, John?" Sherlock prompted. "Get in a fight? Get drugged? Use your powers?" John simply shook his head. It took all he had for Sherlock not to roll his eyes. "John, I need you to work with me here. Be a little more specific."

"…Didn't mean to hurt him…"

Sherlock felt his throat close up. "Hurt him? How hurt is he?"

"Wouldn't wake up." John's hands began to shake.

Sherlock grabbed his flatmate's arm. "Hey. John, let's calm down, alright?" John's eyes fluttered closed. "But not that calm." Sherlock tapped his flatmate's cheek. "John, wake up." John squinted at his friend. "John, I need you to talk to me. What happened?"

Footsteps on the stairs caused Sherlock to groan. He could tell exactly who it was. "Sherlock," Lestrade began as he entered the flat, "are you working a mutant case right now?"

Sherlock turned around to face the DI. "John isn't a  _case_ , Lestrade," he spat, turning back to his now unconscious friend.

Lestrade was both concerned and confused. "What? What happened?" He rushed over to Sherlock's side, kneeling to look at the doctor.

"Got in a fight," Sherlock explained, "and got drugged."

"He got in a fight?" Sherlock nodded. "That…hold on." Lestrade stood, staring the consulting detective down. "When I asked you if you were working a mutant case you said 'John isn't a case.' What did you mean?" Sherlock didn't meet Lestrade's eyes and the DI became impatient. "Sherlock!"

"What did you come here for, Inspector?" Sherlock spat.

Lestrade bit his cheek, doing all he could not to yell at the detective. "Someone called 999 saying they found a man unconscious in an alley. Nothing strange about that, right? Could've been some hammered bloke who decided to pass out on the street." Lestrade began to pace angrily. "But when the scene was checked out the guy looked like he'd taken a pretty powerful beating – other officers suspected he'd been attacked by more than one man. But I saw the scene and there was no evidence of there being more than one attacker. So I thought maybe I was just missing something." He held up a finger. "Until I saw the indent in the wall. That man was thrown against that wall with immense force. The paramedics said he has a broken back. So I figured it had to have been one man who was strong enough to cause that – sounded like a mutant to me, so I came here to you." Lestrade stopped, folding his arms. "And here John is, having just been in a fight and you mysteriously refer to  _him_  when I ask about a mutant." Lestrade glared at Sherlock. "What are you not telling me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock adjusted John into a more comfortable position and got to his feet. He turned to face Lestrade. "Well, it would seem you don't have the deductive skills equivalent to that of a goldfish after all."

Lestrade had no patience for Sherlock's insults. "I did become a detective  _somehow_." He looked over at the unconscious doctor in concern. "So…is he the man we're looking for?"

"It was self-defense," Sherlock said quietly. "He was drugged and he was just trying to protect himself."

"I don't doubt you, Sherlock. But it's him? He's…" Lestrade trailed off.

"A mutant?" Sherlock bit his lip. "Yes."

"How? Wait, is it like the case where you two swapped powers with some kids?"

"The same mutant who did that to us then has done this to John now, yes."

"So why not get them to reverse it? You got it all sorted out last time."

"He's dead." The DI fell silent. "He was killed during the telekinetic attack."

Lestrade stared at the detective and Sherlock could almost hear his brain working. Then it clicked. "That was over four months ago. Has John seriously had these powers for nearly five months and neither of you told me?" Sherlock remained silent, answering Lestrade's question. The DI ran a hand over his face. "Sherlock, you can't just leave me in the dark like this!" He shook his head. "That's why he didn't join you on your cases for a while, isn't it?"

"He was scared of hurting someone."

At that the reality of the situation from John's perspective became evident. Lestrade looked over at the doctor who was sleeping on the couch (at least he hoped it was sleep at this point and not just unconsciousness) and frowned. "So what does he have, exactly? Just general…super strength?"

"And bulletproof skin, quick reflexes, and a moderately fast healing rate."

Lestrade's mouth was agape. "And neither of you bothered to tell me?"

"We were a bit preoccupied with how to deal with the situation ourselves;" Sherlock snapped, "the idea of telling anyone else didn't even come to mind."

Lestrade immediately felt bad. "Right." He cleared his throat. "So how have you two been adjusting?"

Sherlock scoffed at Lestrade's change in attitude. "We've been alright." Sherlock sat in his armchair and Lestrade took John's opposite from the detective. "SHIELD's been keeping close tabs on John's capabilities – he's been required to report for testing once a week. He's been getting good at controlling it, but he's still struggling with dialing to certain levels. He can either use it completely or not at all."

"Explains what happened tonight," Lestrade muttered, putting his head in his hands. He sighed, straightening up. "So if the mutant who did this is dead…John's stuck like this."

"For now he is to live with these abilities, yes," Sherlock answered, placing his hands under his chin in his classic thinking pose.

Lestrade muttered some choice words under his breath and looked over at John. "Will he be okay?"

Sherlock looked offended. "Of course he'll be okay. Why wouldn't he be?"

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Agent Vinik came running into the room panting. "Ma'am? Ma'am, Agent Dover got the drug delivered to Doctor Watson."

Agent Walton turned around to look at Vinik. "All of it?" Vinik nodded. "What became of Agent Dover?"

Vinik shook his head. "It's not good, ma'am. Doctor Watson hurt him pretty badly. He's got a broken back and apparently it's severe – the doctors aren't sure if he'll make it."

Agent Walton looked away. "But he was successful?"

"Completely." Agent Walton grinned. "So what do we do now?"

"Wait to see if our prototype takes effect." She turned and began to leave. Agent Vinik ran after her.

"Ma'am, the drug needs to be administered in constant doses or it won't work."

She looked over her shoulder at the agent trailing behind her. "Then we keep dosing him."


	3. Tear Yourself Apart

_Do you tear yourself apart to entertain like me?_

 

The next day John woke up with the worst headache and a pained back. He squinted and realized that he was not in his room but on the couch. That was strange. When he started thinking about the night before, he couldn't remember a lot. He recalled being attacked but after that…nothing. He sat up with a groan and looked around.

Sherlock walked into the sitting room from the kitchen. "Oh, John, you're awake."

John itched his neck. "Yeah…why am I on the couch?"

"What do you remember about last night?"

"Uh, I remember being ambushed and…I think I was drugged." He looked up at the detective in question.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, you were drugged. Seems to have been nothing more than a sedative though, which is strange."

"Strange?"

"Yes. Why would someone give you nothing more than a sedative?"

John shook his head. "I'd rather not think about it." He looked around in confusion. "What time is it?"

"Eight-thirty. I suggest you hurry and get ready."

John's eyes widened. "Aw hell, it's Saturday, isn't it?" Sherlock nodded. "Right." John stumbled to his feet. "I'll go change."

He hurried up the stairs and made it back down in a fresh set of clothes in record time. John picked up his phone and began to leave, Sherlock trailing behind him. John paused, looking over his shoulder. "You're coming?"

Sherlock nodded. "You were just attacked last night, of course I'm coming."

John rolled his eyes and kept walking. "I don't need a bodyguard, you know." Sherlock didn't say anything but John could tell the detective was skeptical.

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Not much later John found himself in SHIELD's science wing once again. He stood alone in the testing room while Bill and Sherlock were behind a window in the observation room. "Alright, John," said Bill over the intercom, "you know the drill."

'The drill' being one minute's worth of punches to a padded plate reading the amount of force John put into each hit. So just like every other Saturday, John began to punch the reader.

At first, things continued as normal: John began to lose track of what was going on, just going through the motions while his mind went elsewhere. But once John's focus began to drift, the readings on his punches did as well. He could barely hear the "whoa" from Bill over the intercom. John grit his teeth, going at the plate harder and faster. He didn't even realize what he was doing until he noticed he'd become light-headed and there were two people standing beside him.

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder. "John!" Sherlock. "John, you can stop now!"

John ceased his attack on the board and a wave of nausea swept over him. He screwed his eyes shut, putting his head in his hand. Sherlock balanced the doctor, who looked as if he were about to collapse.

"John…" The doctor slowly opened his eyes and realized he was sitting on a bench at the end of the room, Sherlock seated next to him. Bill was staring at his tablet with wide eyes. "John, take a look at this." The scientist passed the device off the John, who looked at the chart on the screen. "That's what your average readings look like." The graph started out strong then very slowly began to diminish. Bill swiped the screen. "And this is what your hits looked like today." The difference was staggering. The graph started off as normal but did not fall, and near the end it dramatically increased. "You've hit a new record." He handed John his water bottle, who accepted it graciously. "If you keep at improvements like this you could Captain America a run for his money."

"This was hardly an  _improvement_ ," Sherlock hissed. "John nearly passed out back there!"

Bill looked ashamed. "Right. Of course." He shook his head. "Obviously you shouldn't be pushing yourself beyond what you're capable of, but…" He gestured to the readings, "look at what you're capable of!"

Sherlock stood, glaring at the scientist. "We're leaving. John?"

John nodded absent-mindedly. "Right…I'm okay, just give me a minute." Eventually, he managed to get to his feet. "Right behind you."

Sherlock gave Bill one last threatening look and led John out of the room.

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Sherlock paced around 221B restlessly. "What was that?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Super strength."

Sherlock glared at his flatmate. "Oh, well thank you for the clarification," he drawled. "How come you've never had those readings before?"

John shrugged. "I dunno. I guess I just tried harder today."

"No, that wasn't it. That can't be it. Something's changed." He threw himself into his armchair and stared at John.

The doctor quickly became uncomfortable. "Yeah, no, don't stare at me like that."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Where were you attacked?"

"Just down the street, near that deli shop we stop at sometimes."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat. "Be back in a few."

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It was pretty obvious when Sherlock found the correct alley. The cracks in the brick wall were indeed impressive. Sherlock began scouring the area for clues. All he got was what he already knew: Two men, one John, one the attacker. John threw the man back instinctively. Somehow John had reason to believe his attacker was non-threatening. Attacker gets closer, drugs John. John throws the attacker into the wall, causing him to break his spine. John flees.

So where was the evidence of the drug? Lestrade would have told Sherlock if something suspicious was found but John hadn't brought it home and if the attacker had it on him it would have been confiscated by either the paramedics or the police. It all added up to there being some evidence left on the scene.

Someone had cleaned up the scene. Not police, not medics.

A third party – that of the attacker. But who was the attacker? Probability of the attacker being a part of a group or organization: 100%. Probability of said organization knowing about John's abilities: Not guaranteed, but almost certain. Then John's powers were motive for the attack. An anti-mutant hate group? But why target John exclusively? No, less general. The organization was familiar with John and Sherlock – they'd crossed paths before. So an organization who attacked John because of his abilities who have dealt with the doctor and the detective before.

Sherlock paused. SIP? The organization's leader was dead and they were being dismantled by SHIELD, though Sherlock supposed he and John could be the ones to blame for that. He needed more information that the crime scene could not provide. Back to questioning John then.

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Upon approaching the door to 221B, Sherlock knew something was terribly wrong. As the detective headed up the stairs to the flat, his suspicions were confirmed – someone had broken in. Make that multiple someones. Sherlock burst into the flat and was greeted with a thrashed sitting room. Coffee table overturned, chairs tipped, books and files scattered around the room, and a figure leaning up against the wall, panting heavily.

Sherlock rushed over to his flatmate's side. "John?" He quickly checked for injuries, pleased to find none. He tapped his friend's cheek, trying to wake him up. "John, can you hear me?" John blinked and Sherlock nodded. "That's it. Come on."

John shifted and grimaced, trying to sit up straighter. "Wha…? Wha' 'app'ned?" he mumbled.

"I was hoping you could tell me." Once satisfied that John hadn't sustained any unseen injuries, Sherlock helped him up and towards his armchair. "Someone's targeting you."

"What? Why?"

"I have a few ideas." Sherlock helped John down into his chair and the doctor grimaced. Sherlock stared at his friend. "What do you remember?"

John ran a hand over his face. "I…Not much. I was just typing up a new blog post – you know, just some basic updates – when next thing I know I'm fighting off..two? Three guys?"

"Three," Sherlock determined, eyes scanning the room.

John shook his head. "Three guys. Jesus. What happened? I-I don't remember anything after that."

"They drugged you."

"Drugged me? Again? That's twice in two days, seems a little excessive, doesn't it?"

Sherlock gave the room a once-over, adding the details his mind gleamed to what he'd observed at the crime scene earlier. "It would seem there is an organization with a grudge against us." Sherlock sat in his own chair opposite John.

The doctor's eyes were wide. "You don't think this is SIP?"

Sherlock looked away. "It's a possibility."

"But we stopped them. SIP's gone, I-I don't see how they'd still…" John trailed off, unsure where he was going.

Sherlock shook his head. "There are still members of the organization out there; they very well could have met up."

Slowly, John attempted to get to his feet. Sherlock was immediately by his side. John grabbed Sherlock's arm and tried to push himself up. Sherlock actually let out a yell, causing John to release his grip immediately. Instinctively, Sherlock held his arm in his other hand. His flatmate reached out in concern. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock tentatively flexed his hand and shook his head. "Fine."

"I-I didn't mean to—"

"I know, it's fine.

The tension was evident as the two men stood in silence. Sherlock's mind was racing with possibilities. John slowly made his way into the kitchen, Sherlock's eyes following his every move. "If it really is SIP – which we don't know for sure yet, might I add – then how do we stop them?" He began fixing himself some tea.

"You're awfully casual about having been attacked twice in less than twenty-four hours," Sherlock commented.

John shook his head. "Well, not a lot can faze me anymore." He picked up a mug and it shattered under his grip. The doctor leapt back, clearly surprised. He swore and tried to pick up the pieces.

"You haven't done that in a while," said Sherlock.

John tossed the broken mug into the bin and tried to pull himself together. "I know. I know, I—" He stopped and leaned against the counter. Sherlock watched his flatmate closely. John shook his head. "I'm just…I'm just a little on edge, okay? To be honest, this isn't totally strange all things considered, but it doesn't make it any less…any less…" John was at a loss. He walked out of the kitchen with his head down, pushing his way past Sherlock and towards the door.

The detective stepped in front of John as he put on his coat. "John, you can't leave."

"Why not?

"Are you really asking me why not?" Sherlock said, offended almost.

John looked up at his friend. "I can handle myself."

"Oh, and you proved that brilliantly in the last day." John tried to side-step Sherlock but he moved, continuing to block the exit. John shot his flatmate a look. "John, if this really is SIP then we have reason to be cautious."

"We don't even know if it is them!" John shouted, throwing his arms up in desperation. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to calm down. "Sherlock, if it really  _is_  SIP then all the more reason for me to get out of here. It wasn't just me who screwed them over, I doubt they like you either." Sherlock was about to interject but John held up a hand, silencing his friend. "I'm trained, Sherlock. You aren't."

"Actually—"

"Just shut up and let me finish." Sherlock's mouth snapped closed. "If they can take on me they can easily get rid of you. I need to get out of here, Sherlock, just while we come up with a plan or get SHIELD on the case, or  _something_." John waited for Sherlock to step aside.

Instead, Sherlock shook his head. "No. You can't leave, I won't let you."

"Sherlock, don't test me," John said, clearly in his Captain Watson tone.

"We don't know what they've given you."

"You said it was likely a sedative."

"That was before I put the rest of the facts together and it was never a solid theory to stand on." If John didn't know any better he'd say Sherlock was getting desperate. "We don't know what it's doing, John. You haven't had trouble controlling your strength in weeks and yet you manage to hurt me and break some of our dinnerware – it isn't safe for you to go."

"Sherlock—" John tried to step around his flatmate, but he kept getting blocked. "Sherlock, you—" Blocked again. "Sherlock!"

On the final move John pushed his friend out of the way. Sherlock hit the wall with much more force than either had anticipated. Sherlock stumbled to the ground with a wheeze. John stood still, looking down at his friend. Sherlock screwed his eyes closed for a moment, trying to reorient himself. "I…" John began. Somehow words didn't seem to suffice. "I'm sorry…I…I'll…" John didn't try to come up with something to say. Instead, he took off.


	4. Train

_Do the people whisper 'bout you on the train like me?_

 

John wasn't actually sure where he was going. He didn't exactly have anywhere to go. It was just for a while, he kept telling himself. Eventually, he found himself at Bond Street Station. He guessed if he wandered long enough he'd figure something out.

There was a surprising lack of people on the platform. In fact, there were only four other people. It initially struck John as somewhat odd but he thought nothing of it. After all, he'd seen stuff like that before. Admittedly, he was on edge after everything that had happened. The first attack in the alley, the second attack in the flat, Sherlock's confrontation and John's failure to resolve it. The doctor felt terrible about what happened but he didn't have the heart to pick up the phone. He and Sherlock both needed time to blow off some steam and think. John would have plenty of time to profusely apologize later.

The next train was to arrive any minute and John figured he'd just go wherever it led him. As John stood waiting on the platform he could feel something was off – something was wrong. He glanced suspiciously around at the other people on the platform. All men, all around the same age, all but one very well built. John could feel his paranoia taking over and he looked down at the tracks, trying to clear it from his mind. But that nagging sensation that something was wrong wouldn't go away. It lingered in the back of his brain.

John looked around at the others on the platform once again. He made eye contact with the smaller man and the man offered a polite nod and brief smile before going back to scrolling on his phone. John shook his head. The man was normal – he was just another person going about his business.

The others though…

John looked around again, scanning the platform. The others were conveniently standing by exits, trying to look incredibly bored. John didn't like the feeling he was getting.

Slowly, attempting to look as casual as possible, John began to turn back around, trying to make his way off the platform. As soon as he took one step a woman appeared in the entryway, looking down at her phone. John halted and the woman did as well, not looking up from her phone.

All the exits were blocked.

John looked up at the sign with the arrival times. Just two more minutes. Glancing at the woman again, John couldn't help but think he'd seen her somewhere before; she looked awfully familiar. Yet somehow he knew they had never met in person. Pictures? He looked around at the people with him on the platform, trying to formulate some kind of plan – any kind of plan. Not wanting to get the civilian pulled into the mess, John tried to take the soon-to-be scuffle elsewhere. He began walking once again, heading towards the exit the woman was standing at. She looked up from her phone as John approached. "Oh! Excuse me," she said, stepping right in John's way. "Does this station have a Central Line?"

"You probably should have checked before you came down here," John said quickly, trying to get around the strangely familiar woman.

She side-stepped him, getting in his way once more. "Sorry, I was in a rush."

"Yeah, and so am I, so if you'll excuse me…" He tried to get around her, but she appeared in the way again.

"Oi!" John heard footsteps and turned around to see one of the men approaching him. The man looked at the woman. "He bothering you, miss?"

The woman shook her head. She definitely knew this man. They were in this together. "No, I was just trying to ask a question."

He folded his arms and John looked up at the man who was nearly twice his size and much taller. He walked around to stand by the woman's side. Now there was really no way for John to get around. "Are we going to have a problem?" the man asked.

"Not if you get out of my way and let me leave."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, just a warning." John could tell there was someone coming up behind him. Now he was really surrounded. A bit not good. "I really hope you're all not attempting something stupid," John said dangerously.

"Pardon?"

"You know; something stupid like trying to hurt me in any way."

"Hurt you?" the woman scoffed. "Why on earth would we want to hurt the one remnant of dear old Director Williams?"

Yeah, definitely SIP.

The man behind John lunged forward, grabbing him. The ex-military officer easily broke free of the agent's grip. The last agent from the other end of the platform came running over to the scene.

As John and the SIP agents fought the lone civilian watched in shock. He stowed away his phone and stepped back, too close to the brawl for comfort. As the civilian looked for a way around the fight, the train could be heard approaching. John swung at the agent closest, sending him flying across the platform and straight into the bystander. Both men went tumbling onto the tracks right as the train pulled into the platform.

John watched as both figures disappeared beyond his view and the train came screeching to a halt. In John's moment of horror, one of the SIP agents pulled John into a secure hold while another whipped out a needle. The doctor felt an all too familiar prick and his limbs began to grow heavy. The last thing he remembered was hearing the incessant chatter between the agents and some terrible repercussions coming from the tracks.


	5. Not a Dream

_You can't wake up, this is not a dream._

 

Sherlock was making phone calls the minute he pulled himself up off the floor. As usual he ignored his body's cries of pain and focused on the job at hand. He tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for the phone to be picked up.

" _Holmes?"_ came the groggy voice of Agent Coulson. Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what time zone he was in. Was he on a mission?  _"I assume this is important."_

"John's run off."

Sherlock could hear some shuffling on the other end of the call.  _"And this is different than usual, I take it."_

"He's been attacked twice in the last twenty-four hours, and now he's gone and run off on his own in his usual heroic idiocy."

" _Attacked? Did you report it to SHIELD?"_

"Must have slipped my mind," Sherlock snapped. "I was a bit preoccupied with the repercussions it would have on my flatmate."

" _What were the attacks, exactly?_ "

"He was drugged. I don't know what with and I'm not sure what the effects are quite yet. He's had a noticeably harder time gathering back what little control he had over his abilities though."

" _You think that's caused by what he was dosed with?"_

"That's one theory." Sherlock shifted on his feet and accidentally vocalized his pain.

" _Are you hurt?"_ Coulson asked quickly.  _"Did he hurt you?"_

"Not incredibly. Our number one priority right now is finding John. I have reason to believe that SIP is behind all of this."

" _SIP? Alright, this is too much for over the phone. Be at London headquarters in an hour."_ Coulson hung up.

Sherlock quickly dialed the next number. As soon as the phone was answered Sherlock dove right into an explanation. "John has been attacked a second time and he's run off."

" _What?"_  Lestrade said, trying to keep up with the information thrown at him.  _"John was attacked again? How bad?"_

"He wasn't hurt but he was drugged again and now he's run off. It's possible what he was drugged with is affecting his abilities in some way – he's been struggling to control them." Sherlock looked over his shoulder at where he had been thrown. "He isn't stable right now."

" _I'll keep an eye out for him, yeah? I'll get some people looking for him."_

"And Lestrade…" Sherlock hesitated. "Stay safe. This is a SHIELD level issue you're dealing with."

" _Got it. We'll find him, Sherlock."_  The DI hung up.

The next phone call Sherlock was a part of was not one he initiated. The detective groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to his brother – but he acknowledged that desperate times sometimes called for desperate measures. He answered. "What?" he asked, not so pleasantly.

" _Brother,"_  came the oh so collected voice of one Mycroft Holmes,  _"I do believe your flatmate has stormed out once again."_

Sherlock couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Astute observation. You've taken to spying on us again, hm?"

" _After you two got yourselves mixed up with that American organization I've been keeping a constant eye on you two,"_ Mycroft drawled. _"And after that telekinetic incident and the good doctor's new…development…I couldn't help but worry."_ Sherlock was about to speak but his brother interrupted.  _"I had some words to exchange with Director Fury after he made you_ agents _,"_  he said, almost with disgust,  _"But Nicholas Fury has never been one to listen."_

"Of course you know Fury, why should I expect anything else?" Sherlock sneered.

" _Brother of mine, I do believe it's safe to assume that I know everybody."_  There was a brief silence.  _"I have some of my best looking for Doctor Watson as we speak. Although I must admit, he's gotten quite good at avoiding my cameras."_

Sherlock couldn't help but offer a proud smirk. "He learned from the best."

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When John slowly came back to consciousness, he immediately knew he was  _not_  at home. As he tried to sit up he found himself stopped by something biting into his wrists. John looked down and saw that his wrists and ankles were cuffed down. He pulled again but was unable to break out of his bonds. Becoming a little frantic, John tugged harder and harder. Eventually, he gave up and looked around.

He was in a large, dark room. The only light offered was from the glowing of a few nearby computer screens. There was a speaker and security camera in the corner of the room across from him. John examined his restraints closer this time and realized they were not normal cuffs. They looked just like the ones SHIELD had used on the telekinetics. And that chronokinetic, what felt like all those years ago.

He wasn't lying down, per se. More like reclined pretty far back. Footsteps coming from above drew John's attention away from his strength negating restraints. He heard shouting from upstairs and managed to catch a few words. "I thought I told you to clear both stations and the train!" came a woman's voice.

A man responded. "Yes, ma'am, we tried—"

"Well tried isn't good enough, agent. First we go kidnapping Watson then we have casualties? Do you  _want_ us to get found out?" There was no response from the man and stomps could be heard from above.

An unseen door opened and light spilled into the room. A switch was flipped and lights turned on, blinding John for a moment. The footsteps descended some stairs and soon John saw the woman from the station standing on the other side of the room. She smiled and walked over to the edge of John's chair. "Agent Watson," she said politely. John tugged at the cuffs in one final futile attempt. The woman shook her head. "Sorry, doctor, but you aren't getting out of those for a while." She began to circle around John. "When SHIELD began to raid our bases we barely got out ourselves, let alone managing to take anything with us. Imagine my surprise when I find another agent has managed to get out a few of these." She tapped the cuff on one of John's wrists. She shook her head. "Simple mercies."

She stopped, once again at the edge of John's chair. "I apologize; I don't believe we've had a proper introduction. I'm Agent Walton." John recognized the name and Walton could see it. "You know who I am?"

"Walton…" John began slowly. Then it clicked. "You're the one who tried to recruit Thomas Snyder and Juliet Michelson. You killed Juliet Michelson. She was just a kid!"

Agent Walton scoffed, legitimately offended. "Killed her? I've never killed a  _single_  person. She killed herself, agent, and that's the truth. We had advised her to use her abilities, and yet…" Walton shrugged casually. "It was hardly  _our_  fault."

Agent Walton made her way over to one of the desks, shuffling through some papers. "Where am I?" John asked.

"Good question, one I can't answer I'm afraid." She looked over her shoulder. "Not yet, anyway." She picked up the file she was looking for and held it up with a triumphant smile. "When Hydra's infiltration of SHIELD was discovered a couple of years back, their files were scattered. Some were released to the public along with SHIELD's, some were never found, some were destroyed, and some…" She flipped fondly through the papers. "…Some were hidden." She looked back up at John with a raised eyebrow. "You know of the, uh, Superhero Civil War, as the public has taken to calling it, yes?" John didn't answer. Walton continued. "Do you know what the catalyst for it was? Oh, there are multiple reasons, yes, but one of the main reasons was because Captain Rogers wanted to protect his dear friend Sergeant James Barnes. Perhaps you've heard of him by a different name – does the Winter Soldier ring any bells?"

"I know who James Barnes is," John said in a dangerous tone.

"Of course. Well, Captain America was so bent on protecting this  _assassin_ , that he put the Winter Soldier in front of the Avengers. And the man responsible for causing all of this? He had a book. One of Hydra's hidden files, never found by SHIELD or the American government. That book contained every code, every word, every  _utterance_  that could control the Winter Soldier. SIP was sad to see that it had fallen into SHIELD's hands after the whole ordeal. Who knows what's happened to it now." Walton looked up from the file and tapped it. "But this? I wouldn't call it a copy of that book, no, it isn't that. More of a…guide, if you will. A 'how to' for creating their super assassins. Copies of the notes made by Armin Zola himself – the original Hydra agent to find Sergeant Barnes." She grinned, thumbing through the file again. "Imagine what someone could do with this."

John didn't like where this was going.

Agent Walton let out a sad sigh. "However, when it came into SIP's possession it was incomplete. There are several holes and we've been unable to find all of Zola's notes. There wasn't enough on sustainability. And who knows how it'll interact with someone who hasn't been exposed to the Super Soldier Serum."

Now John  _really_  didn't like where this was going.

Walton held up a finger. "But, we have had several agents work on it over the past few years. We've come up with our…own tactic, if you will." She sauntered over to the desk again, setting down the file and opening it up. "However, we haven't really had the opportunity to test it." She looked back at John briefly. "Until now." She walked over to one of the counters. John couldn't quite see everything on it, but he didn't like the look of all the medical instruments. Walton began hooking a few things up. "I assure you, killing you is the last thing we want." She smiled. "So I wouldn't worry about that."

The woman wheeled over an IV and tray. John began pulling at his restraints once again as Walton prepped a needle. "Just a pinch." She slid the line into the crook of John's elbow with fair ease. John kept pulling, trying to stop the inevitable.

Agent Walton fiddled with the IV then turned some knobs and flipped some switches. "The process in and of itself is fairly simple. It's just time consuming." She looked over at the SHIELD agent bound in front of her. "The more you fight, the longer it takes. The longer it takes, the more painful and dangerous it becomes." She offered a sickening smile. "So I suggest you don't fight." Walton looked up at the speaker and security camera in the corner of the room. "We'll be monitoring closely."

John was left alone and for several moments, nothing happened. Then there was the buzz of the speaker turning on. "Война." John screwed his eyes shut, trying to block out the noise. "Рассвет." He grit his teeth. "Восточный. Оставил. Поле битвы." John heard screaming. "Здоровье." He then realized the screaming was coming from him. "Январь. Коллега. Жилье." John thrashed against his restraints in vain. "Корона." There was a pause and all that could be heard was the doctor's panting. The silence didn't last long. "Война. Рассвет. Восточный." The whole painful process started over again.


	6. Machine

_You're part of a machine; you are not a human being._

 

John had quickly lost his concept of time. How long had it been? Weeks? Likely. He just didn't know how long. How long. How long had he been here?

Or…had he ever been anywhere else? Was there anything else? It seemed that all he knew was this makeshift lab. It was all he knew. All he knew.

Everything was fuzzy. The more he thought, the more he hurt. So he didn't. Was there something wrong? Yes, yes there was. He knew there was something wrong, he knew something wasn't right, but…but he didn't know what. The more he tried to think of what was off, the worse he felt. He couldn't think of it anyway. Why cause himself pain when he would never get answers?

That woman was there again. She was always there. Walton, yes. Agent Walton. There was a man with her again. Vinik. He'd heard her mention him a few times.

Walton clicked off the recording and John ceased his convulsing. Walton turned to Agent Vinik. "Well, agent, I do think we've been making some progress." She walked over to the desk with a computer and took a seat. Vinik followed.

"Ma'am, it's been a month and we haven't seen very  _solid_  results," he said hesitantly. "I know we're making progress, I can tell, but it isn't as quick as any of us had hoped."

Walton looked up threateningly. "But we  _are_  making progress, are we not?"

"Yes ma'am, of course. I'm simply suggesting we try some different methods. Of a sort," he added quickly. Walton looked at the other agent as if to say  _go on_. Vinik nodded. "Perhaps we could up the dosage? Maybe we could test him? I'm not suggesting we let him anywhere near weapons, I'm just thinking that maybe going through the motions while being exposed could speed up the process."

Walton nodded along slowly. "That does make sense. But I don't think he should be let out quite yet. For now let's increase the dosage. How much is your call, agent." Vinik nodded. The sound of a doorbell caused both SIP agents to look up. "I'll handle this," said Walton. She got to her feet and started towards the stairs. "Try it again with a higher dosage."

The agent left the basement and looked towards the door. Working in the basement of a house in the suburbs of London wasn't as great as the SIP facilities they used to have, but it was what they had to work with for the time being. The most frustrating thing was probably that people could easily come up and knock on the door. It hadn't happened that often, but it  _had_  happened. Nothing they couldn't deal with though.

Agent Walton put on her best  _everything is normal here, I swear_  face and answered the door. On the threshold was a middle-aged woman with a plate of biscuits in her hands. The woman grinned. "Hi! I'm your neighbor!"

Walton grinned. "Oh! Are you the one who's been knocking these past few days?"

The woman gave a dismissive wave of the hand. "Oh, I'm sorry about that – I didn't mean to be a bother."

"Oh, not a problem, not a problem at all!" Walton assured.

"Sorry it's taken so long for us to meet; I've just been so busy. And I know that it takes a few weeks to settle in so I didn't want to be a bother."

Walton smiled, urging the woman to go away in the back of her mind. "I understand; that's totally fine."

"My name's Jenna Baw. I'm right next door," she said pointing. "309." She held out the plate. "Oh! And I made these for you."

"Thank you!" said Walton in fake gratefulness as she accepted the plate. "That's very kind."

Then both women heard screaming coming from the basement. Jenna's face fell and she looked both concerned and afraid.

"Oh, sorry about that!" said Walton. "I was watching a movie and forgot to pause it."

Jenna nodded, less concerned but still uneasy. "Oh! Horror movie?"

Walton nodded, willing the woman to leave. "Yup. Yes, I'm really into the horror genre."

"So is my son," said Jenna. "He just moved out a few months ago."

"Oh, well I'd love to chat but I can't right now," Walton said quickly. "I have to go."

"Got a movie you're itching to get back to?" Jenna joked.

"Yes."

Walton closed the door without another word and Jenna was left standing alone on the porch. Her eyes narrowed and she began walking back to her house. That screaming was definitely not coming from any television. She didn't like the feeling she was getting. Jenna pulled out her phone, dialing the police.

Back inside the house, Walton stormed down the stairs into the basement, placing the plate of biscuits on the table. The trigger words recording was still playing. "Turn that off would you?" Walton ordered. Vinik ended the loop and the yelling stopped.

"Who was it?" Vinik asked.

"Pesky neighbors," Walton muttered. "Help yourself to the homemade biscuits." As Vinik began removing the saran wrap Walton walked over to John's side. She looked down at the mutant who was breathing heavily and whose eyes were unfocussed. "Agent," she began. "Agent, can you hear me?"

Slowly, John looked towards Walton. "Good. Do you know what day it is?"

John's brow furrowed. Did he? No. He should. He should know what day it was, he always knew what day it was.

"Do you know what month it is?"

The month? John tried to think. It was fall. No. Was it? Why would he know what month it was? He hadn't been outside; there was no way he could know.

"Do you know what year it is?"

Of course he knew what year it was, everyone knew what year it was. And yet when he tried to pull up the answer it hurt. It  _hurt_. He closed his eyes, fighting back the pain.  _Don't think, don't think, it hurts to think, so don't think, don't think._

"Answer me."

"No," John said quickly and painfully.

"Do you know where you are?"

Dark, it was usually dark. Well that didn't indicate anything. A building. Where? What for?  _For him._

"No."

Walton stood up straight, holding her hands behind her back. "Very well." She unhooked the needle in his arm. Vinik watched on cautiously. She looked back down at the man. "Война," she said with a perfect accent. John twitched. "Рассвет. Восточный. Оставил. Поле битвы." John flinched. "Здоровье. Январь. Коллега. Жилье. Корона."

The SIP agent stared down at the man in front of her. "Now, agent. What are you prepared to do?"

There was a long pause before the answer came. "Comply."


	7. All Made Up

_With your face all made up, livin' on a screen; low on self-esteem so you run on gasoline._

 

A week of increasing the dosage had showed some promising results. To be honest, Agent Walton was a bit hesitant – she wasn't sure how the SHIELD agent's body would react to the concoction, let alone more than was intended. But there was a reason Vinik was the scientist and not she.

Walton watched on silently as Vinik packed up the final dosage of the day. They hadn't completed everything, not yet, but they were getting close. The trigger words were completely successful but there were still many more codes to add.

Vinik closed the cupboard with a click and nodded his head. "That's all for today, ma'am."

Walton cocked her head, staring at the mutant in front of her. "When do you think we can begin secondary coding, agent?"

"Very soon. The trigger words seemed to have solidified. I was planning on revising the drug; perhaps making it last longer so he wouldn't need to be constantly dosed to stay as is. But if you'd like we could focus on further coding instead."

The woman got to her feet, walking over to the unconscious agent and staring down at him almost fondly. "You have prototypes of this new drug, yes?"

Vinik hesitated. "Yes. But they are just that: prototypes."

"And how will you know if they work unless you test them?" Agent Vinik was silent. "Do you have it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What better time to try it?"

Vinik shifted on his feet uncomfortably. "Ma'am, perhaps we should wait until tomorrow? After all, we did just—"

"Did I stutter, Agent?" Vinik's mouth snapped closed. "We test it. Now."

Agent Vinik nodded and opened the cupboard once again, taking out a box. He opened the box up and pulled out a vial and a needle. He quickly filled the needle and looked back over at Walton. The woman nodded for him to continue. Vinik slid the needle into the crook of John's elbow with ease. The agent's head snapped back as soon as the drug hit his system. Walton stepped closer as she spoke. "Война." John shook his head. "Рассвет." The agent clenched and unclenched his fists. "Восточный." Vinik glanced at Walton unsurely. "Оставил." John began to thrash. "Поле битвы. Здоровье." The faint sound of metal creaking could be heard. "Январь. Колле—"

With a loud snap, the bonds broke. Walton gasped and felt her feet leave the ground. Her toes barely brushed against the concrete floor as she stared down at the incredibly angry and manipulated mutant holding her up by her throat. The SIP agent clawed at the hands around her neck, trying pointlessly to break free of his grip. Walton could see nothing in the man's eyes – they were completely blank. But as she stared longer at what she suspected would be her murderer, she could have sworn she saw a hint of pain and anger.

There was a gunshot and John flinched but made no sound. He turned to see Vinik standing behind him, hands clasped around a gun pointed at him. John threw Walton to the ground and the woman took in a gasp of air, coughing as she tried to crawl away. John stepped towards Vinik and the SIP agent stumbled back, gun wavering. He ran into the counter and found himself cornered. John ripped the gun out of the other man's grip, crushing it in his hands. Vinik watched in horror as the remnants of the gun fell to the ground. John punched Vinik straight in the nose, causing the agent to fall to the ground. But John didn't stop there.

As the mutant beat on Vinik mercilessly, Walton slowly and painfully made her way over to the computer desk. She reached up, trying not to cry out. Her hands made purchase on the desk and she began to carefully pull herself up. She grabbed the emergency sedative and looked back over her shoulder at the brawl. The sights and sounds coming from the corner of the room made her feel ill. Walton pushed herself onto her feet and swayed for a moment, trying to overcome the vertigo. Putting one foot in front of the other, one at a time, she made her way over to the mutant and her helpless fellow agent. With one last burst of energy, she thrust the needle into the doctor's leg. John ceased his beating on Vinik and tried to turn to attack Walton. However, the drug acted quickly and John took only one turn before going still and collapsing to the ground.

Walton slid to the floor, leaning against the counter for support. She felt too weak to brush her hair out of her face, let alone get back up. The SIP agent stared at the unmoving figure of Vinik. She supposed it was time to move.

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Sherlock was not happy.

John had been there. He'd been right under their noses.

And he was gone.

When Lestrade spotted the detective approaching him he slipped his phone into his pocket, preparing to be bombarded. Luckily, he got the chance to speak first. "Please tell me you know other people with super strength."

Sherlock's eyes scanned the scene. Police tape was already up around the fence and a shrouded body was being wheeled away. "He was here."

"I hope to God not," the DI said. "'Cause if he was…" Lestrade looked over at the body. "…then this has gotten a lot more troubling."

"You think John killed him?"

Lestrade turned back to Sherlock, somewhat taken aback. "Sherlock, the man was  _beaten_  to death. No weapons. It was one of the mutilated bodies I've seen from just someone's bare hands!" Lestrade paused, trying to get the image he'd seen upon arriving at the crime out of his mind. He shook his head. "It had to have been a mutant of some kind – and a strong one at that." Lestrade hung his head. "We've brushed the place for prints and have gotten a few. I'll let you know as soon as we get a match."

"How did you find the place?" Sherlock questioned, beginning to walk towards the house.

Lestrade began following after the younger man. "A neighbor called in a few weeks ago saying she—" Lestrade halted, wondering how Sherlock would react. "Saying she heard screaming."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and whipped around. "So he  _was_  here," Sherlock spat. "He was here, he was being hurt, and you did absolutely  _nothing_!"

"I wasn't the one who got the call, Sherlock, that isn't my division," Lestrade insisted. He somehow found the strength to continue. "The house was under surveillance for a while but when there was no suspicious activity the stake-out was called off. About an hour ago the same neighbor called reporting she heard a gunshot."

Two black vans drove up and both detectives looked less than pleased. When the vehicles pulled to a stop Agent Coulson stepped out of one of the passenger seats. He walked over to Lestrade and other SHIELD agents began filing out the vans, making their way onto the scene. "You're the man in charge, yes?"

"That's right."

Coulson pulled out his badge, holding it up for the DI to read. "Agent Phil Coulson. I'm with the Strategic Homeland Inter—"

Lestrade waved his hand. "Yeah, yeah, SHIELD, I get it." He rolled his eyes. "You've got superiority so go ahead and take over my crime scene." Lestrade turned. "Pack it up, boys," he said to the other officers, "and if these folks ask for anything, give it to them."

There was some murmuring among the Scotland Yard officers, but they did as they were told. Coulson raised an eyebrow. "So you know about SHIELD, Detective…"

"Lestrade. Yeah, I know about SHIELD." He shot Sherlock a look and that's all the answer Coulson needed.

"Ah," Coulson said with a smile. "I see. Well then, Detective Lestrade, thank you for your cooperation. We'll take it from here." The SHIELD agent nodded for Sherlock to follow and began walking towards the house. Sherlock walked beside Coulson as the agent spoke. "So this is SIP, then?" Coulson asked.

"I have reason to believe so," Sherlock said, "yes."

Coulson shook his head. "And this…" His eyes made their way over to the body that was being carted away into a van. "This was John?"

"It's likely," the detective admitted. His brow furrowed. "But it doesn't make sense. Self-defense is one thing, but this man was beaten to death." Sherlock pointed towards the van housing the SIP agent's body. "John would've had to beat this man to death with his  _bare hands_. That's not John." Both SHIELD operatives made their way into the house.

Another agent came up from the basement and walked over to Coulson. "You should see this, boss." Sherlock and Coulson exchanged a look and followed the other agent into the basement.

The basement was just about in ruins. Materials were smashed, chairs and tables overturned. A large pool of blood sat in the corner. What was most unnerving, however, was the reclined chair in the center of the room. There were four restraints clearly modeled after those SHIELD used on mutants to negate their abilities – just like the ones used during the telekinetic attack. They were broken.

And they had been broken  _out_  of.

Coulson turned to the agent clicking through one of the not utterly destroyed computers. "Anything?"

"No, sir, they've all been wiped."

"Take the hard drive anyway; we'll see if tech can scrape up anything." The agent nodded and Coulson turned to Sherlock who was trying to pull deductions from the scene. "What have you got?" Coulson asked.

"Experimentation," Sherlock growled, hands curled into fists. "They've been using him like a— like a lab rat!" He turned to Coulson, trying to recompose himself and trying to think of everything as just another case. He could not afford to let his emotions get in the way of this one – John's life may depend on it. "One person escaped and took John with them."

"Any idea as to where they could have gone?" Coulson asked.

"You tell me!"

"SHIELD dismantled all of their facilities," said Coulson, "I don't know where they went. There's no place for them to go."

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Walton's van pulled up outside the old Brighton SIP facility. It had been overrun by SHIELD agents but once they were confident SIP had cleared out, they left. No doubt the facility was still on SHEILD's radar, but at least it wasn't crawling with agents.

Walton stepped out of the vehicle and the driver of a nearby van hopped out. She walked over to the man, who nodded respectfully. "Agent Walton."

"That's  _Director_  Walton to you." The man simply nodded and Walton's gaze went over to the van the other agent had arrived in. "He in there?"

"Yes, ma'am." The man walked around the van, Walton following. He opened up the back and there laid an unconscious man with power negating cuffs on him. "Invisibility and intangibility, just as promised. Covered our tracks as well. Not much immediate family, not many friends, but the few he is in contact with believe he's gone on a backpacking trip across the rest of Europe."

"Good," Walton said with a curt nod. "And the technology needed?"

The agent pointed towards a mess of metal next to the unconscious man. "Ready to go. We just need to set it up quickly."

"Are any others coming?"

"I sent the message out, got some responses. Agent Hatts should be here tomorrow – he'll be heading up our sciences." Walton slowly nodded, pleased to hear they wouldn't be alone. "Word is you've got a mutant of your own in the back of that van," the agent said, jerking his head towards the van Walton had arrived in. "And an impressive one at that."

Walton smirked. "That's correct. He has the exact replica of the late Director Williams's powers." The agent's eyes went wide. "But with the recent successes of our Barnes Recreation Program his abilities seem to have increased." She glanced over her shoulder, warily looking at the vehicle. "As well as his instability." She turned back to the agent. "Which is why we need Agent Hatts on the case as soon as possible. He's sedated for now but I don't want to keep him that way for too long – he may have the strength of a super soldier, but he isn't one." Her gaze hardened. "If he was I would've put him on ice a while ago."

**Props to anyone who can translate the trigger words and decode their meaning ;)**


	8. Code

_I think there's a flaw in my code._

 

Walton was somewhat surprised at how quickly the evacuated SIP facility had come back to life. With the newly developed tech Agent Eudio provided they could stay hidden. With the mutant capable of invisibility and intangibility hooked up they couldn't be seen, couldn't be found. It was as if the building disappeared off the map. Impressive indeed. Walton wondered if the concepts of the tech could be applied to any other mutant. But that was a theory for another day.

She watched on as several agents scurried about, fulfilling their roles as a part of the Barnes Recreation Program. With Agent Hatts back in play, progress had increased exponentially – he was one of the best scientists SIP ever had. And one of the original agents on the Barnes Recreation Program when copies of Zola's notes first fell into SIP's possession. He'd been there since the beginning and he knew the most out of anyone regarding the whole program.

Suddenly, a voice beside her brought Walton out of her thoughts. "Director Walton?" Walton looked over and saw an agent by her side. "We think we're ready."

Walton smiled. "Lead the way."

The agent nodded and walked back down towards the main room, Walton in tow. "Agent Hatts?" The said agent looked up from his clipboard and at the director. "I hear you've got something to show me. I hope you're ready to impress."

Hatts couldn't help but smile. "Yes, ma'am. We've been making fine progress." He set the clipboard down and walked over to the mutant seated in the center of the room. His eyes were glazed over and his focus hazy. "Go ahead," Hatts said, nodding towards John.

Walton stood up straight. "Война. Рассвет. Восточный. Оставил. Поле битвы. Здоровье. Январь. Коллега. Жилье. Корона." John's gaze became much more alert, though he was still staring off into the distance. Walton paused before cocking her head. "Agent?" John looked up at her and she grinned. Without hesitation, Walton punched in the code for the restraints and they clicked open. "Follow me." She nodded at Hatts as well and began to walk out of the room. John got to his feet and all eyes in the room turned uneasily towards him. Both he and Hatts followed the new SIP director.

"Ma'am?" Agent Hatts came up beside Walton looking back over his shoulder at John several times. "Ma'am, what are we doing?"

"Testing him out," Walton explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You said it yourself, we're making fine progress." They entered the shooting range. "Are you confident we can start training and conditioning?"

Hatts paused. "…Maybe. We haven't had a single mishap since you brought him here and everything has been going smoothly. I'm just not sure if we should let him near firearms this early in the game."

"It's been two months since he was first dosed, agent." She picked up a glock and raised an eyebrow. "If not now, when? Besides," she handed the weapon over to John, "we've implanted a failsafe, yes?" Hatts nodded slowly. Walton turned to face John. "Can you hit that target for me?" she asked, gesturing to the other end of the range. There sat a target, a silhouette of a man. John was quick to fire. Hatts jumped. John lowered his weapon and Walton looked at the damage from afar. Perfect hit – right in the chest.

"Good shot," Hatts commented.

"Military training," Walton explained with a shrug. She looked John up and down. "Could definitely do with some fine tuning though. For a level three SHIELD agent his training's a bit lower than what I expected. Although it's been a while since his army days, I suppose." She held out her hand. "Give me the gun." Silently, John complied. Walton smiled and turned around to look at the scientist. "Now I would call that success, wouldn't you, Agent Hatts?"

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Sherlock wasn't surprised when Coulson arrived at 221B. He was actually angry it had taken the agent so long to bring him the information he had requested. Sherlock answered the door and stepped aside, letting the man enter. Coulson stood quietly as Sherlock closed the door behind him. "You've found who was keeping John hostage?" Sherlock said, getting right to the subject at hand.

Coulson took a seat and Sherlock sat across from him. "Two agents of SIP." Coulson handed the file in his possession over and Sherlock began flipping through the reports and photos. "Agent Taylor Vinik and Agent Cora Walton."

"Agent Walton," Sherlock said, recognizing the name and the photo. "She was the one who tried recruiting Snyder and Michelson."

Coulson nodded. "She was Assistant Director – Williams's second in command."

"And now she's taken it upon herself to rebuild the organization," Sherlock mused.

"It would seem so." Coulson looked at Sherlock in question. "Do you have any idea as to why they would want John?"

"No," the detective admitted. "If it's some elaborate revenge plan then they're terrible at it, because I haven't been contacted and there have been no threats made against me. John is not the only one to blame for SIP's fall."

"But he  _was_  the one who killed Williams."

"Then if anything they should be using  _me_  as leverage!" Sherlock got out of his chair and began pacing across the sitting room. "There's something more going on." He looked over at Coulson. "Did you gather anything else from the basement?"

Coulson shook his head. "No, I'm afraid." Sherlock took to pacing again. "They cleaned up after themselves alright. The computers were wiped and while there was evidence of a drug of some kind there was nothing left for us to sample."

"What are they doing to him?" Sherlock growled.

Coulson got to his feet. "Holmes." Sherlock looked over at the agent. "We'll find him." Sherlock scoffed and started pacing again. "Sherlock, you've been running yourself ragged the past two months. You won't be any help to John if you can't even stand on your own two feet."

The detective was admittedly looking worse for wear. Coulson knew the man hadn't been sleeping and he doubted he'd been eating either. Sherlock shook his head, sinking back into his chair. "I won't be any help to John if I don't even know what's  _happening_  to him."

Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Coulson standing beside him. "We'll find him, Sherlock. Something's bound to come up." If only they knew when.


	9. Voices

_These voices won't leave me alone._

 

" _We can't giggle, it's a crime scene!" There was that tall, curly haired man again._

" _I'm not wearing the uniform." But…he did. He did, didn't he? He had to because they fought._

_They fought…_

_What did they fight?_

"–Жилье. Корона."

Walton stood patiently as John met her gaze. "Agent, we have an assignment for you." She held out a photo and he took it, examining the man on the paper. "This is Ed Kawfist. He's the head of an anti-mutant organization based in New York City."

" _We've worked on cases with people like you before."_

' _People like you?' People like him. Mutants. Freaks._

"He's supposed to hold a rally tomorrow, but we want you to stop him before he gets the chance. We cannot let him influence any more people. We need to make it clear that the enhanced are not to be hated and hunted – they are just like everyone else and deserve to be treated as such."

_Cases…_

_Cases with people like him…Except…He wasn't_ supposed _to be like them. He wasn't supposed to be this._

"Understood?" Instinctively, John nodded. "In and out, quick and easy." She took the photo back. "Don't get caught." She nodded towards a SIP agent nearby. "Prep him."

Agent Walton walked away as the other agents took over. Agent Hatts ran up to her and she kept walking, Hatts trying to keep up beside her. "Ma'am, are you sure this is wise?"

Walton turned quickly, staring Hatts in the eye. "Have any of my decisions regarding the Barnes Recreation Program led to negative results?"

Hatts gulped. "No, ma'am."

"Are you going to question every decision I make?"

"No, ma'am," Hatts said, vigorously shaking his head, "not at all. I-I'm just not sure the dose will last long enough. Yes we've extended the period quite impressively, but we haven't thoroughly seen the results of taking him off the serum."

"Everything would go back to base one, yes?" Walton asked, continuing to walk again.

"Yes. In theory. We don't know how long it would take for everything to sort itself out and we don't know how quickly the serum would deteriorate and what the side effects could be. Frankly, I don't want to take the chance." He caught the look Director Walton was giving him. "But if you see him fit to perform a mission then you're the one to make that call. As long as we get him back in time for the next dosage, all should work as planned."

Walton nodded. "It shouldn't be long. It's a simple elimination, how long could it take? We'll have him back in time for the next dose, Agent Hatts, I assure you."

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As soon as the bell rang, students of Midtown High flooded the halls. One of the first to make it to their locker was one Peter Parker. He swiftly twisted in the combination for his lock and swung open his locker. Peter began to set all his books into his locker as quickly as possible. He perked up when he sensed his best friend Ned Leeds running up behind him. "Hey, Peter!" Ned greeted with a smile. "You think you could come over?"

Peter looked over his shoulder and shook his head, somewhat disappointed. "Can't. I've got the…" He looked around cautiously. "… _Stark internship_."

Ned nodded slowly. "Yeah, yeah.  _Right_." He leaned in. "How's that going, by the way?" he asked excitedly. "Any new baddies? I mean, if it were anything big I would have seen it in the news, but anything suspicious?"

Peter couldn't help but smile at his friend's enthusiasm. "Nope. Just being your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man right now."

"When do you think your next Avengers mission will be?"

"No idea. Crazy villains and aliens don't exactly RSVP." He closed his locker and yanked on it, making sure the pesky lock had actually clicked. "Can't go over right now, but maybe later tonight?" He grabbed the straps of his backpack and turned all the way to face Ned. "And as far as I'm aware I'm not patrolling this weekend."

Ned grinned. "Sweet. I just got the new Lego Star Wars game so we could probably check that out." He and Peter walked down the hall and out of the building. "Hey, what are doing, exactly?" Ned questioned. "Just keeping an eye out in general or you have a small mission in particular?"

"Uh, I think I'm gonna check out that anti-mutant rally," Peter said, looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

Ned's eyes lit up. "Oh! I heard about that! The news said there was going to be a lot of anti-protesting going on around that."

Peter nodded along. "Yeah, tensions will probably be running high. Not positive if anything will come of it, but you can never be too sure. I'll let you know if I need a guy in a chair." Ned grinned widely. The two of them came to the street where they were to go their separate ways. Peter waved. "See ya tonight!"

"See ya!" Ned said, waving back.

Peter took off down the street, holding tightly to his backpack, and thus the precious suit inside.


	10. Cold

_Well my heart is gold and my hands are cold._

 

The job was easy. Maybe even too easy. Ed Kawfist had left his apartment unlocked and it was simple to slip in, eliminate him, and get out. The rally wasn't supposed to start for another twenty minutes so that was plenty of time to disappear before people went looking for the anti-mutant leader. John was supposed to finish the job as soon as possible so the thought of cleaning off the blood didn't even occur to him. Not many thoughts did. Going through the fire escape would be the best way to get out – no witnesses in the back.

Except for one.

Peter slipped his suit on and stuck his backpack to a dumpster in his usual fashion. He was about to head over to a building with a better view of the rally when he saw someone climbing out of a fire escape. Peter stared for a moment as the man made his way down the metal stairs. The teen then realized that the man had blood on him. Peter didn't like the feeling he was getting.

Spider-Man began walking towards the fleeing man. "Hey!" The man stopped and looked over at Peter. "You in a rush? Typically people use the front door." John stared. "…You don't talk much, do you?"

" _Leave no witnesses."_

John's hand made its way to the gun in its holster. Peter's eyes went wide and he lifted his arm, quickly webbing the man's hand to the wall. John was startled for a moment but began to pull and after a few good tugs he broke free of the substance. Peter was shocked. "Oh crap. What? Oh crap. You just—Oh crap."

" _If you keep at improvements like this you could Captain America a run for his money."_

John's hand flew up to his head and he grimaced.

" _This was hardly an_ improvement _."_

John doubled over, hands clasped around his ears. Peter watched on, not sure what to do. "What were you doing in there?" he interrogated. "Who are you? How did you break out of my webbing?" He just kept shooting one question after the other. "Do you have super strength? Are you a mutant? Are you here because of the rally? What are you capable of?"

" _Look at what you're capable of!"_

John's eyes snapped open. "SHIELD," he gasped. He looked up at Peter, still hunched over. "You know the Avengers. So you know about SHIELD."

At this, Peter hesitated. "Uh…yes," he said eventually. "Yes, I-I know the Avengers, yes, I've fought alongside them," Peter bragged, trying to make himself more threatening in any way he could.

" _I'd take dealing with you over a pissed off Avenger any day."_

"Sherlock." Peter stepped back, a bit surprised by John's outburst. "I need…I need to tell…" He looked up at Peter desperately. "Can you do something for me?"

"What? Do what?"

John stood up a bit straighter, walking towards Peter. The teen's heart pounded but he stood his ground, webs at the ready. "Paper. Do you have a piece of paper?"

"Uh, yeah, hold on." Peter ran over to his backpack and ripped a piece of paper out of his binder and snatched a pen as well. He ran back over to the agent who was holding his head again. "What is it?" Peter asked. "Why do you have blood on you?" John took the paper and pen and began to scribble. "How come you managed to break out of my webbing?"

"I-I don't…"

" _Leave no witnesses."_

John shook his head and shoved the paper back into Peter's hands. "Can you deliver that for me? Please?" he begged.

Peter glanced down at the paper. "Yes. Yes, of course. Where?"

"SHIELD. Get it to SHIELD. Or-or someone. An Avenger. Just get it to Sherlock."

"Who?" Peter flipped the paper over and saw the name  _Sherlock Holmes_ scribbled hastily.

" _Leave no witnesses."_

"Look, man, I can't just leave you like this. I don't even know who you—"

" _Война. Рассвет—"_

"Just go!"

Then the kid was gone. John held his head. Where was he? How long had it been? What was going on?

A van pulled up at the mouth of the alley and three men dressed in black slipped out, led by a woman. Walton. John remembered her. "Why weren't you at the rendezvous point, agent?" John flinched. His head hurt. Why did it hurt?

"I…I…" The world was spinning. Walton was ordering the other agents around – John couldn't hear what she was saying. Two men flanked him and when he felt them grab his arms he fell into darkness.

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Peter called again, hoping this time someone would pick up. When he was greeted with a voicemail once again he groaned. "Mr. Stark, please pick up. Please, I-I'm not entirely sure what happened but I think it's important. I-I ran into a man and I'm pretty sure…I'm pretty sure he had super strength and he may or may not have killed somebody, I'm not sure, he had blood on him. He just— Mr. Stark, please just pick up." Peter ended the voicemail and was about to call again when his phone rang. Peter quickly answered the call. "Mr. Stark?"

" _Kid, you don't need to leave me four messages, alright? Now what about a man with super strength?"_

"Mr. Stark, I was going to check out the anti-mutant rally – you know, just trying to be cautious – and I ran into this guy. He-he had blood on him and he was sneaking out of a building and he had a gun, I think he might have tried to shoot me—"

" _Slow down kid."_

Peter took a breath, trying not to talk so fast. "I webbed his hand up but he broke out of it. Only other person who I've seen to that is Captain America. So this guy looked…confused, I dunno. He asked for a piece of paper so I gave him some and he wrote a note." Peter held up the note, looking over it again. "He said I needed to get it to SHIELD. Or an Avenger. Can I give it to you?"

There was a pause and Peter wasn't sure if he should say something.  _"Alright, Peter, head over to my tower. I'll take a look at the note."_

"Okay, I'll be right over." Peter hung up and tucked the phone and note away, quick to swing across the New York skyline.

It didn't take long for him to get to the tower. He landed on the helipad and saw that Tony was waiting for him. "Let's take a look at this note you've been going on about," the genius said, holding out his hand. Peter gave him to crumpled piece of paper and the two began to walk inside.

As soon as they were in the building Peter took off his mask. "The guy said we needed to deliver it to the guy he wrote down on the other side." Tony began to unfold the note and flipped it over, reading the name. "I don't know who it is but I think he has something to do with SHIELD." Tony scanned over the message written down and Peter waited for him to say something.

Tony's eyes narrowed as he reread the note. He flipped it over once more, again reading the name. "Friday, look up Sherlock Holmes for me, would you?"

" _On it, boss,"_  came the female Irish voice from the walls. Images began popping up right next to the two heroes.  _"Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective residing in London."_

"Consulting detective?" Stark questioned.

" _That's what it says on his website. It would seem he is a private detective who consults with the police on cases they can't seem to crack."_

"I don't know how it is in England, but last I checked the police didn't consult amateurs."

" _It would seem he is hardly an amateur. Nearly six years ago he faked his death."_

"He faked his death?" Peter asked in shock.

" _That he did. He returned two years later after dismantling the largest criminal web in England, one of the largest in the world."_

Tony stepped closer to the holographic images. "Wait a minute…" He stopped and stared at the photo. Then it clicked. "Son of a–" He ran a hand over his face. "Yeah, he's definitely involved with SHIELD."

"He is?" asked Peter. "How? Do you know him?"

Tony began pacing. "He appeared out of nowhere in the middle of this room several months back." He examined the picture once again. "Could have sworn he was older. Fri, are these pictures recent?"

" _The most recent photo displayed is from four months ago."_

"Hm. Must've dyed out the grey," he said to no one in particular. He cleared his throat and addressed his AI once again. "What else have you got on him?"

" _He's been working with New Scotland Yard since 2007. He's had a history of drug abuse, but no recent offenses in that area."_ More images popped up, this time of Holmes and one other man.  _"He's aided in his cases by his flatmate Doctor John Watson."_

Peter ran forward. "Wait, wait, wait!" He pointed at the newest picture. "That's him, Mr. Stark, that's the man I ran into. He wrote the note."

Tony folded his arms. "Friday, what can you tell me about this doctor?"

The images of Sherlock disappeared and were soon replaced by ones of John.  _"Doctor John H. Watson, formerly Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."_  Images of John's army days began to appear.  _"He studied at the Royal College of Surgeons and joined the armed forces in 2006. In 2010 he was honourably discharged when he sustained an injury."_

"What kind of injury?"

" _Shot in the shoulder, sir."_  Tony nodded slowly.  _"A few months after his return to London he moved in with Sherlock Holmes. He documents his and Holmes's cases on his blog."_

"Send me the link to his blog, would you Fri?" Tony said, pulling out his phone.

" _Of course, sir."_  More recent photos began appearing.  _"Police reports say Doctor Watson went missing just over three months ago. There have been no sightings of him, but the police did find where he was originally being held. Unfortunately, they got there after he had been moved to another location – that was two months ago and no further evidence has been found."_

Tony nodded, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Alright, thanks Fri."

" _Any time, sir."_

Peter watched as Tony began to make his way to the helipad again. "Mr. Stark?" Peter began following after the billionaire. "Mr. Stark, what do you plan on doing?"

Tony stopped and turned towards the teen. "You are going to stay here and hold down the fort that is New York City." He looked down at the note in his hand. "And while you do that I'm going to play messenger."

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Even the great detective Sherlock Holmes was willing to admit he didn't expect to see American genius and billionaire Tony Stark when he answered the door. However, he managed to remain unfazed. Sherlock's eyes shot up and down the man, deductions rolling through his mind. The billionaire on the doorstep was wearing a (quite impressively expensive) suit, but it was wrinkled. So he'd just got there that day – in the last half hour in fact. The man had just been flying. Quite literally. In his hand was a metal briefcase which Sherlock quickly realized was his  _other_  suit. He was not in London due to Stark Industries or he would have taken a plane. He was not there on behalf of SHIELD; his clothing was an indication of that. He was here for something else – something personal.

Tony offered a kind grin. "Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

"Tony Stark," the detective greeted.

"That's what they call me. I was wondering if I could talk to you."

Wordlessly, Sherlock stepped aside, opening the door wider. Tony nodded in thanks and walked into the flat, looking around. Sherlock led the other genius up the stairs into 221B. Tony raised an eyebrow when he saw the sitting room. The place was a mess. There were dishes everywhere, books stacked across what felt like every inch of floor, and papers and files strewn across every conceivable counter space. There was a makeshift evidence board pinned up above the couch. Tony recognized a few photos as that of John Watson.

The detective himself didn't look so good either. If Tony didn't know any better he'd say the man hadn't gotten proper sleep in months. In fact, that was probably the case. He likely wasn't eating well either if his gaunt face and ill-fitting clothes were anything to go by.

Sherlock took a seat in his usual armchair and gestured to the wooden chair at the table. "Take a seat," he said.

Tony raised an eyebrow, stealing a glance at the perfectly open armchair across from the detective. He was about to question why he couldn't just sit there, but then he noticed the thin layer of dust forming on it. Then it hit him. It must have been Doctor Watson's chair. The billionaire pulled out the chair at the table and sat down, placing his metal "briefcase" beside him. He cleared his throat. "I don't think we've had the opportunity to properly meet." He offered his hand. "Tony Stark. Of course."

Sherlock hesitantly accepted the handshake. "Sherlock Holmes. I don't believe we've met before at all, Mr. Stark."

"Tony, please," said the other genius, shaking his head at the use of his last name. "But I'm pretty sure you're the one who appeared in my tower with a kid in tow a few months ago."

There was a light of recognition in Sherlock's eyes. "Ah. No, that wasn't me. That was, I suppose you could say, another version of me from another reality."

At this point in his life, not a lot could shock Tony anymore. So he went along with it. "Okay. Alright, yeah." He cleared his throat. "He's okay, by the way, last I checked. The kid, I mean."

"Thomas Snyder."

"Yeah, that's the one. He made his way to SHIELD alright."

"Good to hear," Sherlock said, leaning forward and steepling his fingers under his chin. "Now then– …Tony...I doubt this is any typical social call. You didn't just decide to pop in one day and introduce yourself."

"I heard about what happened to Doctor Watson. I'm sorry." Before Sherlock could get in a word, Tony reached into his suit's inside pocket and began to speak again. "But I think I have something that could help you find him." He pulled out the note and handed it over to the consulting detective. "An… _associate_  of mine gave this to me…" he paused, "man, was it already yesterday? I hate overseas flights."

Sherlock carefully unfolded the note, taking in the faint bloody fingerprints. His name was scribbled on one side.  _And it was definitely John's handwriting._  "He ran into Doctor Watson and got this note from him," Tony said, gesturing to the paper.

Sherlock flipped the note over and read.

_**SIP's experimenting. Everything's hazy. Kept in Brighton. Copying Winter Soldier.** _

That's all there was other than some more bloody fingerprints. Tony watched carefully as Sherlock's grip tightened on the note. "Where was he?" the detective asked.

"Queens." Tony hesitated to tell the whole story. "And while I was flying over I got a report that Ed Kawfist – the leader of a prominent anti-mutant hate group – was killed in his own apartment not long before he was supposed to hold a rally."

"You think John did it." It wasn't a question.

"My associate saw him climbing down the fire escape of Kawfist's apartment complex around the same time he was killed and covered in someone else's blood."

"Why would John kill this man?" Sherlock scoffed, voiced rising. "He wouldn't do that."

"Would he somehow escape the clutches of his kidnappers and run off to New York City without letting you know?" Sherlock looked up from the note and at Tony. Tony pointed at the paper. "It says  _'Copying Winter Solider.'_  Now I don't know about you, but that doesn't sound too good. If anything it sounds like what he's doing—"

"Isn't of his own accord," Sherlock interrupted, getting to his feet. "SIP's using him. They've somehow managed to recreate the program Hydra used on James Barnes." The look on Stark's face at the mention of the name did not go unnoticed by the detective. However, he elected to ignore it. "To what extent? I'm not sure – it's unlikely they've managed to copy it perfectly, the odds of that are  _extraordinarily_  small." He stared at the note again. "But they've managed to be just inefficient enough so that John could break out of it long enough to write this note." Sherlock shoved the message in his pocket and turned to the billionaire. "I'm sure you can see yourself out." He began to make his way to the door but paused. "And…thank you for delivering this."

Tony shrugged trying to disperse the tension created by the name of the Winter Soldier and Sergeant Barnes. "No biggie." He got to his feet and picked up his briefcase. "I suppose I should be on my way. And the best of luck to you finding Doctor Watson." And with a nod, he left.

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At this point in his career, Director Fury was used to having people storm in on him angrily. And he figured it wouldn't be long before he got another angry visitor considering he was at the London base for a while. So he wasn't at all surprised when a furious Sherlock Holmes burst into his office.

Sherlock tossed a crumpled note onto Fury's desk without a word. Continuing the silence, Fury picked it up and carefully unfolded it, taking note of the bloody smudges across the page. The director quickly read the note and looked back up at the angry detective.

"Tony Stark showed up at my flat today to deliver this," Sherlock explained. "It's from John. John was in New York City and there's reason to believe he murdered someone while on his  _trip_." Sherlock began to pace. Fury's careful eyes traced the other man's every move. "SIP's trying to recreate the methods Hydra used on James Barnes – they're trying to turn John into…into  _their own Winter Soldier._ " Sherlock halted, turning to look at Fury. "SIP had a facility in Brighton, yes?"

Fury set the note down, looking at it once more as he did so. "That they did." He tapped the paper. "This would indicate that's where Doctor Watson's being kept."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspicion. "What do you know? Something's happened – what?"

Fury stood from his seat, leaning over his desk. "When SIP's Director Williams was killed, SHIELD got to work on dismantling the organization. We found every one of their bases and made sure the building was spotless within the day." He paused. "However…not long after Watson was moved from the suburb house, our scanners caught sign of some activity at SIP's old Brighton facility. When we sent some agents to investigate, the building had vanished. It was completely gone – no rubble, nothing. It was as if it had never existed." He made his way around the desk and Sherlock stared, hanging on to the director's every word. "And yet the signals persisted." He shook his head. "But the building is nowhere to be found."

Fury could sense Sherlock's anger boiling to the surface. It didn't take long for the detective to explode. "He's out there! You knew full well something was happening but you haven't done anything about it!"

"I sent some of my best to investigate, Holmes," Fury said in a dangerous tone. "The building  _isn't there_." He pronounced each syllable carefully.

"But  _he's_  there!" Sherlock persisted. "That's where John is and you could have found him by now! But you haven't!"

"We'll reopen our investigation of the Brighton facility, Holmes, you have my word," Fury assured. "But I'm not sure there's much we can do if there's no building to even investigate." He held up a hand to keep Sherlock from interrupting. "But I'll get some agents on the case – I'll even get Coulson to head it up himself if that helps to assure you in any way. If we can't find the building, we'll keep undercover within the town, wait for something to crop up." Fury sat back down at his desk. "You are dismissed, Holmes."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue once again but Fury spoke before the detective could. "You are  _dismissed agent_. I won't hesitate to take that badge back."

Sherlock's mouth snapped shut and he glared at Director Fury for a few extra moments before walking out of his office, slamming the door behind him.


	11. Deranged

_Are you deranged like me? Are you strange like me?_

 

There was a knock on Ned's window and the teen jumped. He looked up from his Millennium Falcon model and over towards the window. Peter was stuck outside to the wall, mask on, looking in. Ned got to his feet and walked over, sliding the window open. "Sorry I didn't text you," Peter apologized.

"No problem, I just figured you got busy being a superhero and what not." Ned slid the window closed and Peter took off his mask. "I was watching the news; they said the guy leading the rally is dead. What happened?"

Peter sighed and sat down in the vacant chair at Ned's desk. "I ran into a mutant."

Ned perked up, quickly sitting on his bed across from Peter. "You did? Because of the rally, right? Did he kill the guy?"

Peter nodded. "The weird thing is I don't think he totally meant to." He saw the confused look on Ned's face and tried to explain. "I mean, he did it on purpose of course, but he seemed really confused afterwards. He gave me a note and I took it to Mr. Stark. Turns out he went missing a few months ago. The note said something about the Winter Solider, so it can't be good."

Ned hung onto Peter's every word. "You think you'll see more of this whole deal?"

Peter shrugged. "Hard to tell, but I wouldn't doubt it." He looked down at the Millennium Falcon model. "But for now, I need to know where you got that!" he said with a grin.

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Lestrade looked down at the body on the floor. His job being what it was the DI was used to seeing some things that the average populous would blanch at. He was also accustomed to cases sometimes hitting a little close to home – especially after getting Sherlock Holmes to work with. But the idea that Sherlock's best friend – one of Lestrade's friends as well might he add – was committing murders not of his own free will? That would never sit right with the detective. Ever.

It had been a month since Sherlock broke the news to Lestrade that John was under SIP's control in a very Winter Soldier-esk fashion. Since then, there had been nearly a death a week that seemed to lead back to him. He hated it. Lestrade hated being unable to do anything about the state of his friends. John was MIA and under a crazy organization's thumb and Sherlock was hardly in the best place because of it. Lestrade had tried again and again to step in, insisting the man care for himself, but the consultant wouldn't have it. There was only one thing on Sherlock's mind: John.

The familiar sound of quick footsteps and insults caused Lestrade to turn. Sherlock was already beside the body. "Evidence is identical, I presume?" the detective snapped quickly.

Lestrade nodded. "Yes. It was him." Sherlock stood, reaching his full height. Lestrade noticed an ever so slight sway, but said nothing. "We haven't done a lot of digging yet, but we can already tell he had connections to an anti-mutant organization. We don't know which one but we're looking into it."

Sherlock looked back and forth between the bullet holes in the window and the ones in the victim's body. "When you find out which organization he was connected to, tell me." Sherlock turned to leave but Lestrade stopped him.

"Let's get lunch, alright? Just chat. Go over some evidence from the last few cases."

Sherlock whipped back around. "I've already gone over every possible detail, Lestrade, there's nothing more to be discussed. We don't need to 'chat.'"

"You need to eat something, Sherlock. John wouldn't want—"

"John isn't here, Lestrade!" The crime scene went silent. "John's out there somewhere  _committing assassinations_  and we need to find him. I can't do that if I cloud my mind with useless chatter and useless food and sleep."

"I understand if you don't want to talk," the DI said patiently, "but food and sleep is not useless, it's what keeps you alive." Sherlock huffed and tried to walk away. Lestrade was not having it. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. "You'll be no help to John if you're dead on your feet. Just…take a break. Okay?"

Sherlock jerked out of Lestrade's grip and stormed out of the building.

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Having scouted the area earlier, John knew there was no good angle for sniping. Up close and personal it was then. The road was blocked, courtesy of a car John placed there not long ago, and the small, quiet road was still. John perked up at the sound of a car. He silently slipped behind a handful of nearby trees, waiting for the vehicle to approach.

The car slowed down, tires scraping against the asphalt. John listened as it came to a complete stop and there was the slamming of a door, then footsteps. John pulled his gun out, loading it. It was almost completely silent. Upon the final click his weapon made, the target turned around, scanning the trees. The footsteps got closer. "Hello?" the man called out cautiously. "I-Is this your car?"

In a single move John stepped out from the behind his hiding place and fired his weapon. The man crumpled to the ground without another sound. John walked up to the road, stepping over the man's body without a second thought. He made his way over to the car and yanked the back door clean off before beginning to search. The case wasn't hard to find, but he had to make sure it was the right one. John broke the lock combination off and opened the lid. Inside was an astounding amount of cash. Yes, this was it.

John closed the briefcase with a click and began walking towards his vehicle. He stopped cold when his eyes landed on the body pouring blood across the old snow.

" _I was a soldier, I killed people."_

" _I thought you were a doctor."_

" _I had bad days!"_

John blinked. He knew that voice. He looked around as if expecting to find someone. But there wasn't anyone. That's because it wasn't real. It wasn't real. John looked back down at the body, staring as the dead man continued to bleed.

" _If you were dying – if you were being murdered – in your very last seconds, what would you say?"_

The briefcase fell from John's slack hands right into the growing pool of blood.

" _Please, God, let me live."_

" _Oh, use your imagination!"_

" _I don't have to."_

He didn't have to. Because he'd nearly died before, hadn't he? While he was killing others. John's hands began to shake. Something was wrong, something was terribly wrong. But he didn't know what. There was something he was forgetting – something big.

The SIP assassin shook his head, trying to break himself free from these thoughts. What was going on? John looked down at the case, now covered in blood. He felt ill. Why? He was used to seeing stuff like this, why the sudden change?  _What was happening to him?_  John stumbled over to his car. He needed to go…somewhere. Where did he need to go? Only one place popped into his mind:

Brighton.

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Detective Ford was scratching his head at this one. He worked in such a small town, all he and his officers ever saw was the occasional break-in, but this? This was more than he'd learned to deal with. A man no one recognized (probably just passing through) shot right in the middle of the road with a blood-soaked brief case beside him. The once-warm blood had melted the bit of surrounding snow, creating a red slush around the body. Not a pleasant sight so soon after breakfast. Needless to say, Ford was very relieved when he got a phone call offering help.

His phone rang and he pulled it out, examining the caller ID. Well that was a name he hadn't seen in a while. He answered. "Detective Inspector Ford speaking."

" _Ford, it's Lestrade from Scotland Yard."_

"Lestrade!" the fellow DI greeted. "Man, it's been a while hasn't it? The Myerson case, right?"

" _Yup, that's the one. Look, Ford, this is a little strange for me to request – I know your cases aren't in my jurisdiction, thus none of my business—"_

Ford shook his head. "No, no, mate, seriously. After that mess you helped me out with during the Myerson case I'm willing to lend any kind of helping hand. What do you need?"

There was a pause as Lestrade registered the immediate and positive response.  _"Uh, are you at the crime scene on Tayola Street?"_

Ford was taken aback. "Er, yeah. Does word really travel that fast?"

" _Nope, I've just got some friends in high places."_  Ford was a bit confused, but thought it best not to question it.  _"Anyway, I was wondering if you'd let a friend of mine check out the scene."_

"Yeah, of course! What's his name?"

" _Sherlock Holmes. He's already on his way, should be there in about twenty minutes. Just as a heads up, he can be a little… How do I put this…_ problematic _to deal with."_

Ford chuckled. "Well, thank you for the warning. I'll give him full access to the scene."

" _Thanks Ford. I owe you one. And as much as you may want to, try not to punch Sherlock."_

Ford couldn't help but laugh, but Lestrade sounded dead serious. "Alright, will do. And no, you don't owe me one. Let's consider this even, yeah?"

" _Alright. Thanks again."_

"No problem."

Sherlock Holmes arrived right on schedule, twenty minutes later. The first thing Ford noticed was that this man was not dressed like a cop. Did Lestrade just ask him to let a civilian on the crime scene? But Ford owed the DI a lot of favors, so he said nothing. He watched as the man walked around the crime scene, examining the car, the body, and then the case. Sherlock opened the case to reveal an enormous sum of (now blood-stained) money. Ford frowned. "Why'd he have that?" he asked.

Sherlock closed the case then began to go through the victim's pockets. "Profits for a mutant hate-group."

Ford halted, taking a moment to register what the consulting detective had just said. "I'm sorry, what? Mutant hate-group?"

"Is that not what I said? Do keep up! God, you're worse than Lestrade," he mumbled. He found what he was looking for and pulled a business card out of the man's pocket.

"Are you a detective?" Ford couldn't help but ask.

"A consulting detective," Sherlock snapped, "the only one in the world." Sherlock got to his feet, examining the slowly melting footprints.

"Okay…so why did the killer not take the case?"

"He remembered," Sherlock said softly. "He began to break out, he began to remember."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"John was remembering, so he didn't complete the mission."

"Who? John? Is that who the killer is?"

Sherlock glared and pushed past the DI. If John could still break through SIP's work, there was still hope yet.

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Director Walton stared as the other SIP agents rushed around their asset, tying to wipe him. This was the first misstep since his assignment in Queens. Hatts walked up to her and Walton raised an eyebrow. "News?"

Hatts looked back over his shoulder at the mutant. "We're going to revise the drug," he said. "It's still working, but its effects aren't as strong as they used to be."

"You think he's developing a tolerance?"

Hatts paused. He hadn't thought of that. "It's possible. We aren't certain at this point what's causing all of this, but we're confident with a new drug he'll be better."

Walton smiled. "Good." She watched the scientists scurry about, hooking up sensors and IVs. "I'm leaving to see if Agent Marks has gotten anywhere with starting his base over in Cardiff, so I'll be gone for a while." Hatts nodded. "I trust you to make the right calls regarding the Recreation Program."

Hatts nodded once again. "Of course, ma'am."

The SIP director took her leave. "Then I leave Brighton in your capable hands, agent," she called behind her.


	12. Take the Blame

_Pointing fingers 'cause you'll never take the blame like me._

 

With Director Walton off looking for other potential SIP assets and checking on Agent Marks's progress, Hatts had free range with their soldier. He was proud of the drug he had created, but HYDRA's assassins didn't need to be constantly dosed – trigger words before every mission was all that was needed (before they were killed, that is). Hatts just wished he had access to the original notes.

Hatts had been developing a new version of the drug – one longer lasting and more potent. The drug SIP was currently using was beginning to lose its effects, but Hatts was hesitant to test the new concoction. He had heard the story of Vinik and the last time SIP had tried to dramatically change the Barnes Recreation Program. Hatts didn't want a repeat of that, but he was starting to feel confident. Not only had he been ordered to try the new drug, but unlike Vinik he had been a part of the program since the very beginning – he had founded SIP's Barnes Recreation Program. If anyone was going to make a choice regarding a change of drug, Hatts was the best one to do that.

The agent held his newly developed formula tenderly in his hand. He looked over at the previous SHIELD agent. "Agent Johnston?" The said agent looked over at Hatts. "Prep Watson; we're testing a new compound."

"Yes sir."

The other SIP agents got to work and Hatts watched on, focusing on the man in the chair in front of him. He was a blank slate to write on.

Hatts took one of the IV lines and hooked up the new drug, eyeing the soldier very closely as the concoction hit his system. Hatts picked up the small blue book from the nearby table and began to read. "Война." The man in the chair began to twitch. "Рассвет. Восточный." He was convulsing now. "Оставил." He screamed with the introduction of every word. "Поле битвы. Здоровье. Январь. Коллега. Жилье. Корона." The room fell silent.

Hatts closed the book with a snap and carefully placed it back down on the table. He watched the panting assassin closely. "Agent?" Their eyes met. Suddenly, Hatts felt quite afraid. But he had to follow through. He punched in the code for the restraints and the cuffs popped open. "Come with me." Guards stood close by, guns at the ready. Not that they would be any help if it came down to it.

John stood and Hatts began to walk towards the training room. He stopped and turned around. John was still standing by the chair. Hatts approached cautiously. "Agent, I said follow me." He didn't budge. The surrounding guards raised their weapons. Others were glancing cautiously at any sharp object nearby. "Is there something wrong?" Hatts asked.

After a beat, John spoke. "What have you done?"

Hatts tried to remain in control, but his heart began to race. "I'm not sure what you mean."

John stepped forward. The guards aimed. The mutant stopped and looked around at the SIP agents surrounding him. He turned back to Hatts. Hatts was not fond of the feeling he was getting. Time to stop the mutant before things got out of hand. "Sput—"

Hatts didn't get to finish the kill switch word. John reached out and grabbed the agent by his neck, effectively cutting him off. Hatts reached up to his throat instinctively, trying to recover his depleting air supply. All the guards were at the ready, but none dared fire in fear of hitting the scientist. One of the other science division agents leapt for the blue book, desperate to find the failsafe word. John turned around and threw Hatts into her, causing them both to go skidding across the floor.

With Hatts out of John's reach the guards fired and the rest of the scientists went running. But of course, it was futile. The mutant flinched, but remained true. He quickly disarmed one of the gunmen, turning the weapon on its previous owner then the rest of the agents in the room, eliminating the threats with ease. Hatts and the other remaining scientists included. He would not allow a simple word shut him down.

John made his way up the stairs to the landing. He could see several men down the hall approaching. It was quick and easy to get rid of them. John was out of ammo now though. Not a problem – he simply picked up a gun from among the dispatched agents in the hall. All he knew was that he needed to get out of this facility. He didn't know why, but he didn't question it. Could he even question his own mind anymore?

He turned a corner and was met with another wave of agents. At least this time they had more protection on. Not that it did much for the amount of power the guns they owned were packing. John ran out of bullets before finishing them off. The SIP agents that were left standing pulled out knives, prepared for hand to hand. Not that they would be able to take the super strength mutant. But nevertheless, they tried.

One agent reached out but John deflected the swipe, quickly disarming the man and plunging the knife into his chest and leaving it there. An agent from behind managed to slice John's arm. The man grimaced but made no noise as he turned around and retrieved the knife from the agent's grip with ease, quickly using it against him, but taking it back this time.

The few agents that were left were quickly disposed of. John was going to get out of the SIP facility, no matter how many agents he had to go through.

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When SIP's somehow invisible and untouchable Brighton facility reappeared on the sensors, SHIELD knew something had happened. They just had no idea how big. But the mere fact that SIP had reared its head called for instant action. Even Agent Coulson was called in. Granted, he was in France and not transatlantic, but the fact that he was called away from another assignment still remained. And while Fury was once again in the United States he doubted even while in England he would have the power to keep Holmes away from Brighton. Not that he'd want to in the first place.

So Coulson, Sherlock, and fifty other SHIELD agents made their way to Brighton. As per usual, Sherlock refused the uniform, opting for his typical clothes. The suit didn't make him look too out of place next to Coulson, but the coat was a little dramatic, even by SHIELD's standards. But what else was new?

When Sherlock hopped out of the van at the Brighton facility he immediately got to work. "One van was taken as a getaway car."

"We'll track it on CCTV after we finish our check," said Coulson. The words seemed to fall on deaf ears as Sherlock made no indication of having heard. He simply walked straight into the building. "Homes—" Coulson didn't even bother trying to get the detective to follow orders. Where John was involved, there was no controlling Sherlock Holmes.

What Coulson didn't expect to find upon entering the facility was Sherlock standing stone cold. But that's what he saw. Then the smell of blood hit his senses. He lifted his sleeve up in an attempt to block out the scent. "Jeez!" He squinted at all the bodies littered across what could be described as the lobby. Causes of death clearly varied, but it Coulson had to guess he'd say bullets and stab wounds were the main perpetrators here. He slowly lowered his arm as the shock of the scene wore off. "This was Watson, wasn't it?" Sherlock didn't answer, simply continued further into the building. Coulson fought back rolling his eyes.

The SHIELD operative turned to the other SHIELD agents. "Alpha, take the left; beta, take the right; gamma, you're with me." The agents nodded at their orders and split up, Coulson following after Sherlock.

Coulson quickly caught up to the detective. "Theories so far?" he asked.

"Yes, this was John. I just haven't figured out what happened yet." Coulson almost ran into the other man, Sherlock halted so quickly. Coulson silently raised an eyebrow in question. Sherlock turned and started down a short hall that clearly lead to a dead end. One of the doors at the end of the hall was busted off its hinges. Sherlock stepped over the hunk of metal and into the room, Coulson only a few steps behind.

Inside was a man, still alive, but barely clinging to consciousness. Sherlock rushed over and knelt down. The man looked up and tried to scramble away. Blood was pouring out of a bullet wound in his side. Sherlock held out a hand. "It's alright; we're going to get you out of here." He looked up. "Get a medic in here!" he shouted into the hall. Footsteps taking off could be heard.

Sherlock turned back towards the man who was clumsily grasping at his bleeding wound. "You need to put pressure of that," Sherlock ordered. The man looked at him with wide eyes but tried his best to follow orders. "What's your name?"

"J-Joe. Joe Tar-Tarman."

"Joe Tarman. My name's Sherlock Holmes, that's Phil Coulson." The agent mentioned nodded. "We're going to get you out of here, alright? Now can you tell me what SIP wanted with your abilities?"

Coulson looked at the detective in question, but Sherlock didn't see it. "They…they hooked me up to this-this thing," the man panted, gesturing up to a mess of wires and metal in the center of the room that had been utterly demolished. "It was…They used it to-to…to use my powers and-and put them….put them, uh, into the…into the building." Joe was struggling to stay awake.

"And they used your abilities to what?" Sherlock questioned. "Power the building?"

"Hide it." A look of revelation crossed the detective's face. "I-I can go in-invisible and I'm, er, intangible. That-that means people can walk through m-me."

"That's how the building was hidden," Sherlock muttered.

A SHIELD medic burst into the room. Sherlock got his feet and stepped aside, letting the medic work. He looked on for only a few more moments before heading back out into the hall. Coulson followed close behind. "Any new theories?"

It was then that the two of them came upon the main experimentation center. The gamma squad was already all over the scene, securing evidence and tallying a body count. Just like the basement in the suburbs, there was a reclined chair in the center of the room – this one, however, clearly had some upgrades. Sherlock made his way down the stairs as he took in the new evidence he was provided. He stopped when he got to one of the tables. "Someone came back."

Coulson stopped. "What?"

"Someone came back after the…massacre…and retrieved a few things. Some of the drugs and possibly a book."

"A book?"

" _Yes_ , a book. Notes most likely. SIP wants to retain its research, even if they can't retain their  _asset_ ," Sherlock sneered. "The van that was taken was taken by John. If we trace that we should be able to find him. That is, if your agents can act quicker than SIP." He turned on his heel and began making his way out of the building. "Every time we get close we end up one step behind.  _Just one step behind._ "

"We'll find him, Sherlock," Coulson called up to the platform.

Sherlock didn't even bother turning around. "You've said that a few times now, Agent Coulson. When are you going to follow through?"


	13. Wake Up

_You can't wake up, this is not a dream._

 

John had ditched the SIP vehicle in favor for another car. Things were…hazy. Breaking out of the SIP facility was all a blur – he only really recalled the sound of gunfire and the smell of blood. And as to where he was headed? He had no idea. He just knew he needed to leave; he needed to get far, far away from Brighton.

It was far into the night when John decided it was safe to stop. He'd car hopped again in a further attempt of throwing off any pursuers that may be on his tail. The agent just hoped he'd done enough to get some rest without fear of being found. He pulled over into a parking lot outside of a convenience store. This was the first time he was alone with his own thoughts since…well…ever as far as he was concerned.

John leaned his head back with a sigh, trying to organize his thoughts. He was…was escaping. From SIP. Yeah, he knew that much.

But who was he? Where was he supposed to go? Was there anyone out there who knew him – who  _truly_  knew him? Someone who knew who he was other than a hitman? Other than SIP's gun?

Or was he anything other than that? John couldn't remember much at all. He knew his name – his first name at least – and he remembered snippets of what he'd done for SIP. But other than that…

John shook his head, wracking his brain. There  _had_ to be something else in there. There had to be  _something_  else he remembered, something he could use, something…someone he could contact. He peered out of the car window and looked around. There, on the side of the convenience store. A payphone? John perked up ever so slightly.

He slipped out of the car and thanked whoever was out there that payphones and phone booths hadn't become completely obsolete yet. The little optimism John had vanished when he realized he had no money. He looked around just in case anyone had dropped some change. Nothing. Nevertheless, John pushed his way towards the phone. Once he found himself in front of the old piece of tech he squinted in confusion. What was he doing again? Phone call!

John picked up the phone and hesitated. He was forgetting something. Well, many somethings, but he couldn't make a call because…because… _Money, obviously_ , came a voice from the back of his head. Right. John looked down, searching for some coins. Just his luck he found some, but not enough. John checked the return tray, hoping someone had forgotten to take their change. And someone had. The assassin scrambled to grab the money and slide it into the payphone.

He hesitated. Who was he supposed to call? He didn't remember anything, let alone anyone's phone number. John's hands shook as he kept checking over his shoulder, cautious of being caught. John found himself punching in a phone number, but he was unsure how he knew who to call. After three rings the phone on the other end was picked up.  _"Hello?"_

John stopped cold. He knew that voice. He  _knew_  that voice, but at the same time…he didn't. He hated the feeling in the back of his mind that told him who he called because he couldn't pin it down. The man on the other end spoke again.  _"Hello?"_

Snapping back to reality, John open and closed his mouth a few times, unsure what to say. Eventually, he settled upon, "Uh, hello? Who is this?"

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Ever since John went missing Sherlock hadn't taken on a single case – he couldn't afford to divide his attention from his missing friend. Had some of the cases that came Sherlock's way been interesting? Yes, a few of them he would have taken in a heartbeat under normal circumstances. But ever since November…

Sherlock's phone interrupted his thoughts. His eyes flicked over to where it was laying on the table beside him. It was a number he did not recognize. After the failed attempted of retrieving John earlier that day (or, technically, the day before since it was  _very_  early in the morning) Sherlock had returned to Baker Street, awaiting further information. He answered. "Hello?" he snapped, not in the mood for any form of pleasantries. He waited for an answer but got none. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. The person on the other side was silent but Sherlock could hear heavy breathing. "Hello?" he asked again, irritated, but not as rude as he first was. Finally the caller spoke.

" _Uh, hello? Who is this?"_

Sherlock shot straight out of his seat. He hadn't heard that voice for months. "John? John, is that you?" Sherlock took to pacing the living room. "Where are you? Are you hurt? What's going on?"

" _I-I…Slow down…"_  John paused.  _"What?"_

"Where are you?" Sherlock repeated. "Can you tell me where you are?"

" _I don't know. I don't know, I…I got out, I got a car, I drove, I—"_ John broke off.  _"I…I can't remember. I got out, but I-I…"_  John trailed off and his breath was quickening.  _"They're dead. I killed them."_

Sherlock closed his eyes. Brighton. "I know. You remember that then. Now please, John," Sherlock said slowly, "I need you to tell me where you are."

" _I-I don't know."_

Sherlock did his best not to worry – worry wouldn't help him find John. "Alright, then tell me what you see."

There was some shuffling on the other side of the phone.  _"Uh, I'm a petrol station. There's a school across the street."_

"A school? Good, that's good. What's it called?"

"… _Guild Preparatory."_

Sherlock opened his laptop, typing it into the search bar. "Stay in town, we'll find you." Sherlock got the school's address and found a map. "We're about four hours away. Stay low until we get there." There were a few beeps and the call disconnected. Sherlock barely fought the urge to throw the mobile across the room.

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When the call ended on its own, John desperately began to look for more change. The man had never answered the question. John still didn't know who he had called.  _Stay low,_  he'd said.  _Stay low until_ we _get there_. But…who was  _we_?

John pulled his arms close, trying to fight off the cold. It wasn't snowing, which was a blessing, but his simple shirt and jeans didn't offer much warmth.  _Stay low_. It would be warmer in the car he'd stolen. But he'd be a sitting duck. John told himself that it was the middle of the night; no one would be reporting a missing vehicle for a while. He knew there was a very high chance of being caught; he knew he had to keep moving. But deep down…something undeniably  _human_  demanded rest.

He just had to trust whoever he had called would find him before his enemies would.

Giving in, John made his way over to the minivan he'd stolen. He opened the driver's side, slid in, and locked the door with a click. John let out a long sigh and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Everything was confusing but his thoughts were beginning to line up. He sat up and reached over into the glove compartment, looking around. His eyes lit up and he pulled out a pen and pad of paper. He flipped though the mileage records and found a blank page. He wrote  **John**  at the top.

The agent paused. That was all that came to him – he couldn't think up his last name.

**My name is John** , he wrote right next to it. John wrote  **SIP**  right below his name. He hesitated. SIP…SIP was…bad.  **I worked for SIP.**  John almost felt sick just writing those words. What had he done?  **Spy. Assassin. Murderer.**  John halted at murderer. That's what he was – he was a murderer. But not anymore. He wrote that down.

The next thing he wrote down was the phone number he'd called. He didn't necessarily  _remember_ the number, the digits just came out. But who had he called? How did he know him?

John set the notebook aside. He just had to make it four hours. He could do that. John turned, looking around the back of the car. He was pleased to find a neatly folded blanket on the backseat on the passenger's side. He grabbed it. He could last four hours.

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It didn't take long for Sherlock and the other SHIELD agents to find where John had been holed up. The dead body was a pretty good indicator. But there was no John. Sip had gotten there before him  _again._  How could he always be one step behind? The agents were quick to flood the scene, Sherlock right behind. One of the agents looking through the car pulled something out. "Agent Holmes!" Sherlock turned around and the agent ran up to him. Wordlessly, the agent handed over a notepad. Sherlock scanned what was written.

**John. My name is John**

**SIP. I worked for SIP**

**Spy. Assassin. Murderer. But not anymore**

Near the bottom was Sherlock's number and right next to it was another note.

**Colleague? Friend?**

Sherlock stopped short. When John called he'd asked who he was. He didn't know Sherlock – he didn't remember him. Sherlock was so preoccupied with finding John that he didn't even answer the man's question. And now SIP had him.

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Walton stared down at the unconscious mutant in front of her, fiddling with the blue book in her hands. The Brighton facility was gone, her best scientists were dead, and SIP was definitely falling. The amount of damage the soldier could inflict was…astounding. Scary, really. He'd killed nearly everyone at Brighton – few had managed to escape. In less than an hour he'd caused a massacre. But he was unstable. Very much so. He was beginning to regain free will. Walton hadn't found any evidence of him really  _remembering_  who he was, but he knew what SIP turned him into was not who he wanted to be.

Walton couldn't have him running around with his abilities and  _free will_. He wouldn't know how to control his abilities. He barely knew how to control them  _before_  the drug was introduced. Now? He was dangerous. Far too dangerous. He was on the fritz and without Hatts there was no one to fix that. As much as Walton hated it, he was a lost cause. No one could keep him under control. But that didn't mean SIP couldn't use him one last time.

The van hit a pothole and Walton jumped, gripping the box tighter. It was decided then. One last attack. She knelt down next to the mutant and watched as he slowly came back to consciousness. There was no time to waste then. "Война." Immediately John's eyes snapped open. "Рассвет." He looked up at Walton with wide eyes. "Восточный." He scrambled up against the door. "Оставил." He tugged at his restraints in desperation. He'd broken out of earlier versions before, but with the new concoction Hatts introduced, Walton didn't want to find out if the newer design was still strong enough. She had to work fast then. "Поле битвы. Здоровье." John screwed his eyes shut, minutely shaking his head. "Январь. Коллега." John stumbled to his feet, a dangerous look in his eyes. "Жилье." He stepped forward. "Корона!"

John stopped short, too close for comfort. The familiar glaze passed over his face and Walton let out a breath. "Agent…?" He made eye contact. "I have an assignment."


	14. Human

_You're part of a machine; you are not a human being._

 

Sherlock was pacing back and forth in the debriefing room at SHIELD's London headquarters. Coulson sat at the opposite side of the table, watching patiently. " _He was there_ ," Sherlock sneered. "I spoke to him, we found his notes. He didn't know who I was – he doesn't even know who  _he_  is! And SIP has him again! How long is this going to take?" He turned on Coulson. "When will SHIELD  _finally_  become useful?"

Coulson gave a longsuffering sigh. "I'd say SHIELD has been pretty useful over the years." If looks could kill Coulson would have been dead many times over.

An agent came bursting through the door and both men turned to look. "Sir, we have a match," she said. By the time Coulson got to his feet Sherlock was out the door, Coulson stayed a few paces behind, walking alongside the other agent. "Watson was spotted just twenty minutes from here. But he's not alone. It would seem Director Walton is with him."

Coulson offered a quick 'thank you' and rushed to catch up with Sherlock. "You're gonna need your uniform."

Sherlock didn't even bother looking at Coulson. "There isn't time."

"Yes there is. I don't want you getting yourself killed, you understand?"

"The uniform won't keep me from getting shot, Coulson, and there  _isn't time_!"

Coulson grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, causing the detective to stop and turn. "This isn't a negotiation. I know the suit doesn't provide as much protection as you need right now, but it's what we have and it will stop a couple of things. We don't know what state John is in right now and we don't need him killing you on his conscience, understood?"

Sherlock glared. "If I wear it no on interferes."

"Unless required. No other agents will engage unless directly ordered by me."

There was a tense pause, but Sherlock eventually conceded. "Fine," he snapped.

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When SHIELD arrived on the scene the police were already there. Of course two people with an obvious and quite frightening amount of weapons would attract attention as well as a few phone calls to the police. Luckily there weren't many civilians watching on. The rain had caused them to seek the indoors. So there wasn't a need to worry about civilian casualties.

Lestrade recognized the vans as soon as they pulled up. He hurried over to the nearest one and Sherlock got out. "Sherlock!" Lestrade stopped in front of the detective. "What's going on?" He looked over his shoulder at John and Director Walton. "We've tried talking to him but he won't respond. We haven't approached yet, obviously, given the weapons the woman has, but—"

Sherlock walked past the DI. "Get your officers out of here, Lestrade."

Greg paused. "What?"

"I said get them out of here. We don't know what direction this is going to take. We don't need you to get involved."

"Sherlock, what's going on? Last time I heard anything about John was when we found that basement a couple months ago." He risked a glance over at John. "What was going on in there?"

"Experimentation." Sherlock turned to face the DI. "Lestrade, you need to leave. We don't know what's going to happen."

"Like hell I'm leaving! John's my friend too and you can't keep leaving me in the dark like this!"

Even Sherlock knew there was no winning this argument. "Fine. But send your officers back and stay out of the way." Lestrade nodded, knowing this was the best he was going to get. He walked off, getting his officers out of the way of SHIELD.

Sherlock began walking towards John and Walton. "Cora Walton!" Walton looked over at the detective.

"A tactical SHIELD uniform? Really?" She laughed. "You've stooped low, Holmes."

"If you leave John with us we'll let SIP walk away," Sherlock said, getting right to business. "We'll stop pursuing you. Until you cause another catastrophe, that is."

Walton raised an eyebrow. "A catastrophe? Like the one at Brighton?" She looked at John. "Your friend here has a lot of potential. All we wanted to do was unlock it. We went a little far on that, I'll admit. All of my best agents are dead because of him. Impressive, but unforgivable. Luckily he's pretty much a ticking time bomb at this point. Our drug was revolutionary, but it wasn't quite what we intended. My one regret is that we didn't have all of Zola's notes. If we had then perhaps we would've gotten our perfect Winter Soldier." Sherlock clenched his fists. "But you know what? You live, you learn."

Walton reached into her pocket and pulled out a syringe. "You know, he's just a little too problematic for me. In fact, I think the drug's the cause. One of my scientists gave him a dose larger than usual and then the whole Brighton massacre happened." She fiddled with the concoction in her hand. "Wanna see what happens when you give him even more than that? I do. I suppose the hope is it overloads him and he dies. But that would be a shame, wouldn't it?" She shrugged. "Though I guess it's for his own good – who would want to live with the knowledge they killed all their friends?"

"So that's your plan? Get him to kill me?"

"Oh, don't flatter yourself. He'll be killing more than just you." She looked over at the SHIELD agents taking their positions. "Well, let's get this over with. I want to watch, but this weather is atrocious. Better get a move on then." She plunged the syringe into John's neck. Even if no one else could, Sherlock saw the look of pain in John's eyes. "Kill him," Walton hissed, "and kill any SHIELD agents you can manage. You know what? Go nuts." She gave John a bit of a push before sending Sherlock a smug look and walking to a safe distance, hand on her gun.

From what Sherlock could tell, John had no gun on him. Good. However, the number of knives hidden on him was somewhat unnerving. John began to walk forward and Sherlock raised a hand. "John, look at me. You know who I am." John made no indication that he did. Sherlock stepped back a bit as John continued to approach. "This is entirely SIP, this isn't you."

Once John was within arm's length Sherlock prepared to move. But John stopped and stared at the detective. "John, you know who I am." Out of nowhere, John attacked. Sherlock took the hit and went sprawling across the asphalt. John stepped closer and stood over the detective. Sherlock held his broken nose tenderly and stared up at his friend. "Don't do this, John," he said softly.

John glowered and raised his fist. Sherlock barely managed to roll out of the way in time. John tore up the asphalt where Sherlock's head would have been. Sherlock jumped to his feet and faced his friend. There wasn't even a sign of recognition in his eyes. Sherlock held out his hands. "You know who I am. John, listen to me—" John kicked Sherlock straight in the gut, sending him flying. As soon as he stopped skidding, Sherlock rolled over and immediately threw up. That was…painful. Not good.

Sherlock stumbled to his feet, hand wrapped around his torso and doubled over. "John, this isn't you," he coughed. His vision was blurring and he shook his head, clearing it temporarily. "You know that, don't you? Deep down, you know this is wrong." John halted. "You're my friend."

" _I don't have_ friends _."_

" _Hm. I wonder why?"_

John blinked. Sherlock stood up a bit straighter. "You remember, don't you? You know me." Slowly, Sherlock began to get closer. "You are John Hamish Watson, not this  _thing_  SIP's created."

John screwed his eyes shut and grabbed his head.  _"Shut up!"_ he yelled. But Sherlock persisted.

"They've manipulated you, they're controlling you, it's all SIP! It's Walton!"

John's gaze snapped back up and Sherlock halted. They stared for a few moments before John slowly turned. Walton was leaning up against the van, watching the fight. John headed right for her. Walton's casual leaning quickly dissipated and she stood straight up, hand gripping her gun in fear. John's pace got quicker and Walton drew her weapon. "Agent, you haven't completed your mission." John didn't slow down. Walton fired but, of course, John didn't stop. Quickly becoming very afraid, she scrambled for the car door. John beat her there and he gripped the handle. Sherlock could hear the sound of creaking and cracking metal from where he was. John let go and the door handle was completely deformed. Walton wouldn't be able to get in through there.

Walton burst into a sprint, trying to get to the next door. John grabbed her arm and the SIP director let out a scream. John twisted her arm, resulting in a loud crack. Walton screamed again, louder this time. John pulled her closer and pulled out his knife. Walton glared at the mutant, streaks of tears and rain falling down her face. "You can't do this! You follow my orders! I made you!"

John pulled Walton closer and she cried out. "No you didn't," he hissed. "No one made me." With that, he drove the knife into her abdomen.

Walton made no sound, simply opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. John twisted the weapon and Walton let out a whimper. John gave it one last movement before pulling it out. Walton fell to the ground like a ragdoll.

Everyone watched on, not daring to make a move. John slowly turned back around, facing Sherlock. John began to stumble towards his friend. Sherlock nodded, raising a hand in innocence. "You know who I am, don't you?" John blinked hard, shaking his head. "They tried to make you forget, but you didn't. You couldn't." Sherlock began to walk forward (more of a shuffle, really, his torso wasn't in good shape). "You wrote me a note, do you remember that?" He grimaced as he jostled his wounds. Sherlock stopped and John met him in the middle, staring the detective down. "You wrote me a note – you broke free of SIP's control." He let out a breath of a laugh. "You called me, remember? You broke free of their control twice before, you can do it again."

John shook his head, grimacing. "Stop it!" He swung, catching Sherlock's jaw. The detective quickly fell to the ground. John put his head in his hands, panting. Sherlock waved off the SHIELD agents who raised their weapons. He stumbled back to his feet and gently prodded his face. Miraculously, his jaw wasn't broken. Not that it didn't hurt like the devil. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he mumbled through his injuries, "and you are John Watson."

John hit his friend again. Sherlock didn't try to get up this time. "I said  _shut up_!" John knelt down right next to Sherlock, taking the detective's collar in his hands and pounding mercilessly. " _Shut! Up!"_  He accented each syllable with another hit. Sherlock limply reached up and grabbed John's shoulder. John halted, breathing heavily and staring down at the man he was beating.

"Listen to me," Sherlock barely managed to get out. He swallowed and his face contorted in pain. "This isn't you. John…Please." Slowly, John's fist began to lower. "Please..." Sherlock coughed, "come back."

John's grip on Sherlock's suit slackened and the cloth slipped from his fingers. Sherlock's head fell into the pavement, but the detective made no sound – he only grimaced in pain. John sat back on his knees, staring at his friend.

"…Sherlock?"

Sherlock did his best to look at his friend. It hurt to move, blood was obscuring his vision, and his face was already swelling, but he caught a glimpse of John. He looked…confused… "You…I…" Sherlock slowly and painfully tried to get to at least his knees. John's bloodied hands shook as he stared down at them. Sherlock dragged himself closer to his friend.

The detective reached up, grabbing his friend's arm. John's gaze snapped over to Sherlock. Sherlock never wanted to see John so scared ever again. "John…" Sherlock wanted to get closer, but he was in too much pain to move. John looked down at his friend with a little less emotion than before. Sherlock swallowed. Suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his gut. He gasped and looked down. A knife was hilt deep in his abdomen. Sherlock's eyes snapped back up to John. He was blank-faced once again. "J—" John pushed a little harder and Sherlock cut himself off with a gasp. Sherlock grasped at John's arm in desperation.

There was the sound of a weapon firing and John flinched. It wasn't a bullet, but a dart in his skin. He stared at the dart imbedded in his shoulder and his vision blurred. John swayed and collapsed to the ground. Sherlock lost his grip of his friend and his arms fell to his sides. The detective bit back each wave of pain and nausea that erupted from his abdomen. Through the pouring rain Sherlock heard the SHIELD agents closing in. The first person to reach him, however, was not a SHIELD agent.

Lestrade skidded to a halt next to the consulting detective. "Oh my god,  _Sherlock_!" Greg knelt down next to the younger man and his hands hovered over the knife still stuck inside Sherlock's abdomen. Sherlock's eyelids flicked closed. "Oh no, you aren't doing that to me. Sherlock." Greg tapped Sherlock's face. "Hey, stay awake you hear?" He became a little more aggressive. "Sherlock!" The consultant's eyes opened, just barely slits due to the swelling. "You need to stay awake, alright?"

"Inspector Lestrade!" Greg looked up and saw Coulson running over, several SHIELD medics passing him. Lestrade had the sensibility to step back and let the medics do their work. Coulson stopped next to the DI. "We're going to have to ask you to leave," Coulson said, clearly not happy about this fact.

Lestrade was quite obviously shocked by the mere idea. "Like  _hell_  I'm leaving. I'm going with them."

"We'll be taking them to SHIELD headquarters, Inspector, not—"

"Well I'm going with them,  _so deal_." Coulson knew that even though he could still make Greg leave, there was no point in doing so.

"J'hn…"

The two of them looked down to see Sherlock reaching towards his flatmate. John was cuffed with SHIELD's power-negators and was being lifted onto a stretcher. Lestrade turned on Coulson. "Is all this really necessary?" he asked, gesturing to the SHIELD agents who were strapping John down, restraining him further.

"You saw what he just did, you tell me."

"He's unconscious!"

"We can't take any risks." Coulson watched the agents wheel the doctor away. "Look, I don't like it either but we have to be careful. And right now Sherlock's our number one priority." The two men looked back over at Sherlock. He'd been loaded onto a stretcher and the medics were working on administering oxygen and stabilizing the knife. Coulson nodded. "Alright then, let's go."


	15. Run

_Low on self-esteem, so you run on gasoline._

 

When Sherlock woke up, the last person he wanted to see was his brother. Once he finally came back around what did he find but Mycroft sitting beside his bed. Sherlock glared. "Whe—" He stopped, grimacing. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock shot his brother a look. "Wh'r's J'hn?" he mumbled.

Mycroft sighed, leaning back in his seat. "I doubt talking feels too peasant. I suggest you don't do it."

Sherlock glared and persisted. "Wh'r's J'hn?" he repeated.

"Safe." Sherlock relaxed ever so slightly. "He did do a number on you though. Be glad the doctors didn't have to wire your mouth shut. That would have been quiet unfortunate, now wouldn't it?"

"P'ss 'ff."

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Your jaw is incredibly damaged nonetheless, yet you continue to speak." Sherlock attempted to sit up. "Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft snapped, "you aren't going anywhere." Sherlock sunk back into the bed – not that he'd gotten far to begin with.

"How l'ng?"

"How long have you been here, or how long  _will_  you be here?" Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. "You and Doctor Watson were admitted two days ago. As for how long you'll be here, the doctor's suspect at least three more days.  _At least_ ," he emphasized.

"Wh'n c'n I s' J'hn?"

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Pardon?"

"J'hn!" Sherlock finally found the bed controls and sat it up.

"He's being kept in a secure ward. They've been keeping him sedated since he arrived."

Sherlock frowned. "Why?" he grumbled.

"Sherlock, do you not remember what he did?" Mycroft said, voice slightly raised. "He's killed a number of people in the past several months. His last target was you!" Mycroft quickly composed himself and his emotionless mask fell easily into place. "Luckily, it would seem what SIP did to him was not nearly as successful as what Hydra did to Sergeant James Barnes. SHIELD has hope for a full recovery. As to how long it will take, no one is certain."

A figure appeared in the doorway. "Sherlock!" said Lestrade. "You're up!" Sherlock huffed. "Jaw giving you trouble?"

"Wh't're you doin' h're?"

"Checking up on you, you idiot." He gestured down the hall. "Phil got me a…visitor's pass, so to speak."

"Ph'l?"

"Agent Coulson."

Mycroft got to his feet. "Well, brother dear, now that you're awake I'll leave you in the capable hands of SHIELD. Update me if anything changes." He gave Greg a polite nod before leaving.

Lestrade took the now vacated seat beside Sherlock's hospital bed. "How are you feeling?" Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. "That bad, huh?" He leaned forward. "I've been talking to Phil about John's…state." Sherlock perked up. "They decided you should be there when they take him off the sedatives. You were almost enough to get through to him the other day so they figured you're our best bet."

"Wh'n?"

"When?" Sherlock nodded. "Not sure. Probably when you can speak a little bit better." Sherlock made a face. "Hey, they didn't have to perform surgery on your jaw, so that's good. You're already talking; it shouldn't take too long for you to get back to your normal speaking speed. The knife in your stomach was a different story."

Sherlock looked down at where his wound would be under the blanket. The area was completely numb so it was hard for Sherlock to tell exactly how bad it was. "You're going to need to take it easy for a while, understand? You were in surgery for six hours. It was bad." Lestrade smiled. "Yet here you are, alive and kicking." Greg sighed and shook his head. "God what am I going to do with you two? I swear you'll be the death of me. One day you two are going to give me a heart attack!" Sherlock looked a bit smug. "I must've aged three years in just the last five months." The expression on the consulting detective's face turned into a frown. Lestrade shook his head. "God…it's been five months since we've seen him," he said softly. "What a reunion."

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Finally, the day for waking John came. Sherlock was still required to stay off his feet and the wheelchair definitely put a dent in his pride. He was parked right at John's side. John had cuffs attached to both sides of the hospital bed. "He's broken out of these before," Sherlock said.

"Yes," said Coulson, "but do you really think SIP has the technology equivalent to SHIELD? Ours are higher quality, he won't be going anywhere."

The doctor on John's case turned to Sherlock and Coulson. "Are we ready?"

"As we'll ever be," said Coulson.

The doctor nodded and began turning down the knobs on the various machines John was hooked up to. They all waited tensely for a few minutes, the guards at the front of the room on standby. Eventually, John began to come around. His eyelids fluttered a few times, and eventually opened. As soon as he registered his surroundings John took a sharp breath. He looked around wildly and began tugging on the restraints. "John!" John's head whipped over and he looked at Sherlock. While he seemed to calm ever so slightly, he still continued to tug on his restraints. "John, you need to calm down." John looked away and tried to sit up. His panic was growing.

Sherlock reached out but didn't touch him. "John, do you know where you are?" The former SIP assassin stared at the detective but made no noise. "Do you know who I am?" Sherlock tried.

John looked around the room, taking in the doctor, Coulson, and the guards by the door. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. John was analyzing, reading the room. Looking for all possible forms of escape and anything that could be used as a weapon. "Okay then, we'll start small. I need you to calm down for me. Can you do that?"

John locked eyes with Sherlock once again. He stopped pulling at the restraints. Sherlock slowly nodded. "Alright then. That's a start." He leaned forward, aggravating his knife wound. The detective ignored it. "Can you tell us your name?"

John looked up at Coulson suspiciously, then back at Sherlock. "John." Sherlock would never admit how relieved he was to hear John say his own name.

Sherlock nodded. "Good. That's good. Last name?"

John hesitated before shaking his head. Sherlock felt a sharp pang of…something. Guilt? Worry? "Watson," said Sherlock. "John Watson." John made no reaction. Sherlock nodded along. "Your name is John Hamish Watson. Do you know that?"

John shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "Are you in pain?" the doctor asked. John continued to shake his head. Sherlock and Coulson shared a look.

"What do you remember?" Sherlock asked. Broad question, open ended – it should get something out of John.

"SIP." Sherlock nodded.

"And what about SIP?"

John clenched his fists. "I…I worked for them. I-I killed for them."

Sherlock and Coulson shared a look. "Do you remember anything else?" Sherlock asked.

John hesitated, looking around the room. "…No." He looked up at Coulson.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He scrolled through a few photos before finding the one he wanted. "Here." He turned the phone around to show John. It was the two of them, just after another successful case. "Do you know what this is?" John looked up from the picture and at Sherlock. "This was the last case we worked together before I fell. Before Bart's. Before Moriarty. Before those two long years." Sherlock watched closely as John examined the photograph.

"…You fell." Sherlock nodded. "…You…You died. I watched you."

"And I did it to protect you. We're friends, remember?"

The whole ordeal was proving to be a little much. John looked away and tried to sit up, yanking at his restraints again. Sherlock reached out and John flinched, trying to pull away. Sherlock pulled his hand back. "Do you remember who I am?" John looked at everyone frantically, trying to get out.

Coulson turned towards the doctor and nodded. The doctor got to work on turning back up the monitors. Sherlock sat straight up. "Wait, what are you doing? Don't!"

Coulson walked over to Sherlock. "We can continue this later."

"I'm getting through to him!"

"He's quite distressed," the doctor said. "We don't need him hurting himself."

Sherlock looked back over at John. His tugging had become less aggressive and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. It didn't take long for him to lose consciousness. Sherlock glared at Coulson. "You could at least have given me a warning."

Coulson folded his arms. "We can try again in a few hours. We don't want to overwhelm him."

"He remembered the fall."

Coulson nodded. "That's a start. I have high hopes for him remembering everything, if not then  _almost_  everything. Getting those trigger words out of his head is what I'm concerned about." The two of them looked at the man in front of them. "But we'll work on it. We'll get there."

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Even though Sherlock got officially discharged, he didn't go home. He remained at the SHIELD base, by John's side at every moment he could be. He was back on his feet and the only evidence of his injuries was soreness and stitches. He was still on some pretty heavy painkillers though.

Some days were better than others. Sometimes John would remember a little more, other days they'd be a few steps behind. Occasionally they got nothing out of him at all. It tended to fluctuate quite a bit – each day was different and he needed constant reminders.

On one of the harder days, Sherlock got a phone call. He didn't recognize the number itself, but immediately identified the area code. He answered. "Sherlock Holmes."

" _Holmes? Hey, this is Tony Stark."_

"Figured as much. What is it?"

" _Huh? Uh, I was just wondering how you're holding up. I heard you got Doctor Watson back."_

"Yes."

" _Good, that's good. Hey, my buddy who found Watson and delivered the note has been a little on edge since the whole deal. He was wondering if we could come visit. You know, just to put his mind at ease."_

Sherlock paused. How would that impact John? Would seeing someone he tried to harm while under SIP's control have a negative influence, it would it awaken more memories? "Maybe. If you'd like."

" _Cool."_

"But not yet. We aren't ready for that. I don't know how John would react."

There was a pause.  _"Oh. Okay, that's fine. He was just worried, is all. I'll let him know. And don't think we aren't eventually going to show up. Let me know when the time is right."_  He hung up. Sherlock kept working.

It had been four days since John woke up when Director Fury arrived at the London headquarters. Sherlock was the first person he asked to see. The detective walked into Fury's office where the SHIELD director was waiting for him. Fury leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "Holmes. Take a seat." Sherlock walked over to the desk and sat down opposite Fury. "How's Doctor Watson?"

"Surely you've seen the files and if you haven't you have total access to them," said Sherlock. "You don't need me to play messenger regarding John's condition."

Fury quirked an eyebrow. "I believe what I was doing was just showing basic decency – asking how your friend is. Trust me, I've seen the file."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Then get to it, Director. I've been debriefed already, so what is this?"

Fury stared at Sherlock for a moment. He then opened one of the desk drawers and pulled something out. He tossed a small blue book onto the desk. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously. "Do you know what this is?" Fury asked.

"SIP's notes on John," Sherlock deduced.

"Exactly." He gestured towards the book. "You are to use it in aiding with Doctor Watson's recovery. As soon as you don't need it anymore, burn it." Fury watched as Sherlock picked up the book. "We don't need that falling into the wrong hands." Sherlock began thumbing through the pages. "The only ones who know we have this are the agent who found it, Coulson, you, and me. So far Coulson and I have been the only ones to look inside." Sherlock glared over at Fury. "Just to confirm what it was," Fury coolly reassured. Sherlock skimmed through the pages, looking over a number of code words, missions, reports, and small reminders scribbled in the margins. "I trust you'll keep it safe and use it wisely."

"Of course," Sherlock said, sliding it into his coat pocket.

"Since Watson hasn't been showing any…homicidal tendencies, I've come to the decision that letting him go back to Baker Street with you is the right course of action." Sherlock's head snapped up and he stared at Fury. "He'll be released tomorrow morning." His eyes narrowed. "Don't make me regret this decision. You're dismissed, Holmes." Sherlock nodded, got to his feet, and made his way towards the door. "And take care." Sherlock paused, but didn't turn back around. After a moment, he went on his way.

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When Sherlock walked into John's room the next morning the soldier was sitting on his bed, looking at a note. Sherlock had brought in the note John wrote to him in Queens in hopes it would resurface some memories. It was somewhat successful.

John looked up at Sherlock as the detective entered. "Morning," Sherlock greeted.

"Morning."

Sherlock went through the usual routine. "Do you know who I am?"

"You're the detective." Sherlock waited for John to continue, but he looked away.

"Sherlock Holmes."

John shook his head. "Right. Right, I…" He trailed off, looking back at the note.

"And you are?"

"…John Watson."

"Good." Sherlock walked over next to John. John looked up. "We're going home today." There was no change in expression on John's face. "Do you know where that is?" John shook his head, looking away. "Baker Street," said Sherlock. "221B Baker Street." John simply nodded, rereading the note again. Sherlock cocked his head. "What do you remember about that?" he asked.

"About the note?" Sherlock nodded. "Uh, I wrote it to you. I was…I was in New York."

"Good. That's right." There was a pause. "Are you ready?" Sherlock asked.

John looked confused. "To what?"

"To go home."

"Oh. Right. Yes." John got to his feet, still looking at the note. Eventually he shook his head slightly and put it in his pocket. He looked back up at the detective expectantly.

"Alright then," Sherlock said with a nod. He led the way out of the room. As the two of them walked through the SHIELD base Sherlock kept checking over his shoulder just to make sure John was still there. He was. They both got a lot of stares and a few whispers, but it was nothing Sherlock couldn't ignore. John didn't seem to notice it at all. He didn't seem to notice a lot, really. He typically seemed...vacant. But they would work through that – things would get better.

The escort to Baker Street was spent in silence. It was a bit tense given the two security guards sitting in the car with them. When they finally arrived, Sherlock was eager to escape the SHIELD agents and get inside. One of the conditions of letting John leave was that cameras were set up everywhere in the flat. As much as Sherlock despised it, he realized it was nonnegotiable – if getting John home meant security cameras, then security cameras it was.

As soon as Sherlock opened the door, Mrs. Hudson was there to greet them. The past five months had been rough on her as well. She'd constantly fretted over Sherlock, waiting eagerly for John to show up. She'd been totally informed of the situation and told what to expect. That didn't make the actually reunion any less jarring.

As soon as she saw John step into the building her hand went up to her mouth. "Oh, John," she sobbed. She stepped forward, arms outstretched. Instinctively, John stepped back. Luckily Sherlock was the only one to notice John's hand briefly flick towards his side – exactly where a weapon would be hidden. Mrs. Hudson stopped. John looked her up and down. She hesitated. "John?"

Sherlock stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm going to show John up to the flat. We can talk in a bit."

She bit her lip and nodded, obviously fighting back tears. Sherlock turned towards John and nodded, walking up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson watched them go, then hurried into her flat, barely resisting the urge to cry.

Once Sherlock entered the flat he stepped aside, letting John enter. Rather than examine the room, John turned to Sherlock. "Who was that?" he asked.

"Our landlady."

John looked away, trying to remember…

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Do you remember which room is yours?"

John hesitated for a moment. His eyes flicked towards the stairs leading upwards. Sherlock began to nod. "Yes?"

"I'm…I'm upstairs." John looked back at the detective. Sherlock cracked a smile.

"Good. Well, I have a few things to take care of, so…" Sherlock trailed off and John nodded, taking off up the stairs.

Every part of Sherlock was telling him not to leave John alone, to go with him. But John hadn't been left alone with his own thoughts since…well, other than his brief escape, five months ago. He needed this. Sherlock pulled out the book from his coat pocket. While he'd skimmed through it before, he hadn't yet really read anything. He knew that he could very well find information that would help John, but he was also…afraid? Of what, exactly?

Sherlock walked into the kitchen and took a seat at the table, setting the book down and opening to the first page. It was a list of Russian words – trigger words. Sherlock quickly turned the page. He didn't want that knowledge.

He read through the book, finding dates of missions, objectives, forms of training and conditioning, and important reminders. One page was taken up by only a few words, one of which was bold and underlined several times. At the top of the page it read:  _Failsafe_. Sherlock stared at the word on the page. There was a short description at the bottom.  _In case of emergency. Using the failsafe will render asset unconscious._  Sherlock's grip on the book tightened, but he continued on.

He read for about fifteen minutes before he heard John descending the stairs. Sherlock quickly slipped the small book back into his coat. John rounded the corner and came into the kitchen. Sherlock watched as John passed by the table, reached into his pocket, pulled out a pocket knife, set it in front of Sherlock, and kept walking like nothing happened. Sherlock stared at the small tool in front of him. Of course Sherlock had hidden John's gun, but he hadn't found the pocket knife. Where had John hidden that?

Sherlock looked back up at John who was going through the cupboards. "Searching for something?" he asked.

John looked over his shoulder. "Huh? Oh. Just…something to eat…" John got very quiet.

Sherlock got to his feet. "I'll order something. What do you want?" John stared at Sherlock, confused almost. Sherlock waited for an answer but got none, even after several moments. "Chinese it is then."

He called in the order and the two of them waited. Sherlock took the pocket knife. He'd be hiding that later. The food arrived quickly and the two of them ate in relative silence. It was…interesting, observing John. He had the same mannerisms as he always did, they were just more subtle – more reserved. He was less talkative and more observant. It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that every time John entered a room he examined all the exits. And that was only the beginning. But he'd bring the old John back. He knew he would.

The second day back at 221B was rough. John's memories were fluctuating pretty badly again and he was constantly holed up in his room. Sherlock figured it would be best to let him be – let him piece things together himself.

That night was even worse. Sherlock hadn't gotten much sleep since…well, ever; his sleep pattern had always been all over the place. But the last few months in particular had been quite hard. Of course the first night in forever he's actually able to fall asleep and not just pass out from exhaustion he's awoken by screams. Sherlock shot straight out of bed, grabbing the gun he'd confiscated before John got back home. He rushed up the stairs and burst into John's room. He found no intruder, just John sitting up on his elbows, panting and tangled in his bed sheets.

Sherlock quickly tucked the gun away. "John?"

John shook his head and raised his hand. "Fine. I-I'm…" he took a deep breath. "I'm fine." He sunk back into his pillows. "It's fine."

"What did—"

"I said I'm  _fine_!" John snapped. Sherlock stiffened. John closed his eyes. "I'll be fine."

It took Sherlock a few moments to really believe his flatmate. "Alright then." Sherlock walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

The nightmares became pretty typical. Sherlock wouldn't interrupt unless they clearly got bad or went on for a long time. John refused to talk about them.

One morning Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen once again, this time working on an experiment. He hadn't yet finished reading SIP's notes. In all honesty, he was avoiding it. He didn't want to know all of what SIP put John through and shoved into his brain. The notebook was tucked away, hidden and safe. He knew he had to read it eventually. But now wasn't the time.

John silently entered the kitchen. "Good morning," Sherlock greeted.

"Morning," John grumbled.

Sherlock looked up from his experiment. "Do you know who I am?"

John stopped, taking a breath. "You're my friend."

It was good enough. "And you are?"

"John Watson."

"Good." John quickly resumed what he was doing and Sherlock went back to his experiment. A few moments later he heard a clang as something dropped down in front of him. Sherlock looked up and saw a kitchen knife sitting right in front of him. He looked over at John, who was busying himself with making breakfast. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why do you keep doing that?"

John turned back around. "What?"

Sherlock gestured to the knife in front of him. "This! Why do you keep doing this?"

The doctor frowned, genuinely confused. "I…I don't know what you're talking about…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up. "This is the fifth time you've done this. Why?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," John insisted.

Sherlock picked up the knife. " _This_. You keep handing me sharp things – knives, mostly." He put the knife back in the drawer it belonged in. "Why?"

John shook his head. "I…I-I don't—" Sherlock waited for an answer. "I don't know…" John said quietly. "I didn't know I was…I-I didn't realize—" He cut himself off, looking at Sherlock in worry. "I didn't mean…" His hand went for the knife drawer.

"…John?"

John pulled open the drawer, looking inside. "I didn't know I was…I'm sorry, I—" He pulled out the chef's knife. Sherlock's hand unconsciously made its way towards his stitches.

"John, put that away." John looked over at Sherlock. "Put it back, John."

"I didn't realize I was doing it." John was beginning to become a little frantic. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't know. I don't know what…" He shook his head. "I don't know why I do these things. I-I don't understand what's going on half the time!"

"John," Sherlock warned, holding up a hand, "put the knife down."

"I  _know_  everything is wrong, I know! But I can't—I can't…I don't know  _what's_  wrong!"

"John!"

John stepped closer to the detective. "They screwed with my head and I don't know how to fix it! I do things without meaning to, I can never remember anything, I—" He held the knife a little higher.

"Sputnik!"

John immediately fell to the ground.

Sherlock stared down at his unconscious flatmate. This was a mess. This was a big, big mess.


	16. Flaw

_I think there's a flaw in my code._

 

"Not even a week and you're already back?" Sherlock glared at Fury. The director simply sighed. "Didn't I tell you not to make me regret my decision?"

"We  _are_  making progress—"

"But the fact that Doctor Watson almost lost it still remains." Fury shook his head. "I thought letting him recover in familiar surroundings would help."

"It is," Sherlock insisted. "We just need time."

"I couldn't care less about how long it takes. There are, however, people who care much more strongly. If you don't start seeing results soon—"

"It's barely been over a week since we even got him back from SIP!" Sherlock insisted. "We're making progress."

"Good." Fury got to his feet. "And I expect you to  _keep_ making progress." He shot Sherlock a look. "Don't land yourselves back here again, Holmes." Fury jerked his head towards the door. "Dismissed." Sherlock stuck his nose in the air and left.

As soon as he exited the director's office, Coulson ran up to him. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Holmes—"

"What?" he snapped.

Coulson halted. "I heard what happened. Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Coulson." Sherlock began walking to where John was being detained. Coulson trailed right behind.

"When do you think he'll come around?" Coulson asked.

"About another hour, according to SIP's notes. Unless…"

When Sherlock didn't continue Coulson raised an eyebrow. "Unless…what?"

"Unless we use the trigger words on him, which we are  _not_  doing," Sherlock answered quickly.

"What? God, no, of course not," Coulson said, aghast by the mere idea. "We wouldn't. We can wait another hour for him to come around, no problem." Sherlock stopped outside the door leading to the unit with John. Coulson watched the detective closely. "Is something wrong?"

After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out the book. He flipped open to a certain page and stared at it. "Ever since John came back to Baker Street he's been handing me things. Sharp things – knives usually. Weapons of some kind." He didn't look at the SHIELD agent as he passed over the notebook. "I didn't know why, and I snapped at him, causing this…setback."

Coulson took the book and read what was on the open page. He frowned.  _Asset will arm any and all unarmed superiors,_  it read _. If this does not occur, please refer to training and conditioning._  Coulson looked back up at the detective. "He sees me as a…as a  _superior_."

Coulson shook his head. "Holmes, I really don't think—"

The detective turned. "You saw the footage." Coulson fell silent. "Even if it's not a conscious idea, the fact that he treats me as such is an indicator of what's going on in his head. SIP ripped it apart and shoved back the pieces they saw fit."

"This is going to take time, Sherlock," Coulson assured. "I have complete hope for John getting back to normal. But if you want that to happen you need to be with him every step of the way, you understand?" Sherlock silently watched the agent. "You said you snapped at him, yeah? Well, you can't do that, not anymore. If you want your friend to have a safe, quick, and successful recovery you're going to need to be a little more caring. Show your support, but don't be overbearing. Be there for him but don't force him to overshare. Do you understand?" Sherlock's gave a nod so small Coulson almost missed it. The SHIELD agent didn't follow when Sherlock opened the door and continued down the corridor.

Sherlock rounded the corner and his day went from bad to worse. Standing outside of John's room was Mycroft, waiting casually. Sherlock glowered. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

"Making sure Doctor Watson doesn't…relapse, again. He could have killed you."

"But he didn't." Sherlock was not in the mood for this. "We can handle this ourselves, Mycroft, no need to meddle."

"John shouldn't remain at Baker Street." This made Sherlock pause. "For the safety of you both."

Sherlock stepped closer. "Absolutely not. Baker Street is the best place for John to recover. Putting him in unfamiliar surroundings won't do him any good."

"Sherlock—"

"No." He simply pushed past his brother and walked into John's room, closing the door quite forcefully behind him.

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True to his word, Fury let the two go back to Baker Street. Now Sherlock was really beginning to feel the pressure. If there was another incident, one more screw up, it was all over. SHIELD (or worse yet, Mycroft) would be taking charge of John's condition and Sherlock would not allow that. As soon as they returned to 221B John headed straight to his room. Sherlock didn't try to stop him.

Sherlock spent the next few hours scouring through the flat, removing anything that could easily be used as a weapon – which was just about everything. Of course, there were some things he couldn't just get rid of. Tools and knives that were often used had to be locked away. If it came down to it John could probably break through the lock, but Sherlock wouldn't let it get to that point.

When John had first returned home, Sherlock had gone through the flat with a fine-toothed comb, tidying up and hiding the gun, locking away anything that could possibly be unsafe. He thought he'd done a good enough job but going through the flat a second time made the detective realize exactly how much he'd missed the first time around.

Sherlock had just about finished when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson was out so that meant it was up to Sherlock to open the door. With much annoyance, he stopped what he was doing and made his way down the stairs, throwing the front door open. There on the threshold stood Agent Clint Barton.

Sherlock hadn't seen the rogue Avenger since the telekinetic attack just shy of a year ago. He had a duffle bag slung across his shoulder and was wearing civilian clothing, a broad smile on his face. "Hey."

The detective rolled his eyes. "SHIELD sent you to keep an eye on us I take it?"

"Is it really too unbelievable that I might just be here because I need a place to crash? Casual reminder that, technically, I  _am_  a wanted criminal."

Sherlock just stepped aside, letting Clint enter. The two of them walked up the stairs to 221B and Clint's eyes widened when he saw the sitting room. "Whoa. This place is a helluva lot cleaner than last time I was here."

"You can take the couch."

Clint slowly nodded, making his way over to the couch. "Okay. Thanks." He tossed his bag next to the couch and sat down. "Seriously. Thanks for letting me stay."

"Not that I have any say in the matter. No doubt SHIELD would require someone—"

"Come on, seriously?" Clint said. "I mean, really? Sherlock, I'm not here because of SHIELD."

"Why else would you be here?" Sherlock snapped.

Clint was taken aback. "I want to help. As a friend, not as an agent on an assignment." He folded his arms. "I…Well, I kind of know what it's like to not be in control…" Sherlock simply watched the agent closely. "Back during the New York attack, I was…compromised." The agent was clearly not used to retelling the story. It was something he'd chosen to push away. "I guess you could say I was mind controlled – that's really the best way I could put it. I wasn't in charge of my own body and sometimes I wouldn't even be able to think for myself. But I remember it. After it was all said and done, I remembered all of it. I remembered aiding the enemy, I remembered killing other agents, killing people I considered  _friends_." He paused, looking away. "I'm a spy – an assassin. I've killed before and I've had no problem doing it…But that was different. I wasn't in control and I killed allies, not the enemy. It took a long time for me to recover from that." Clint bit his lip. "I want to help, Sherlock. Let me help."

After a few moments, Sherlock went back to tidying the flat. "How long do you think you'll be here?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Hard to say. A week or two? It all depends on how you guys are doing."

They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Both men looked over as John entered the room. He spotted Clint and stopped short. The archer offered a goofy grin. "Hey! How you been?"

John hesitated. "Uh…I mean, I-I've been…adjusting." He looked Agent Barton up and down.

Clint raised an eyebrow. "You do remember me, right?"

"Yes. Yeah, you're…you're Hawkeye."

"The one and only."

"What are you doing here?"

Clint shrugged. "Just need a place to lay low for a while. No biggie." Sherlock gave a huff from the other side of the room. The two assassins looked at the detective for a moment, but Clint manage to break the awkward tension. "So…I heard you had a bit of a…setback," he began carefully.

John hung his head. "Yeah."

"You'll get there, trust me."

"And you would know?"

Clint paused. "Well…I know a guy." He got to his feet. "Just take it easy, alright? Things'll get better."

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True to Agent Barton's word, things did get better. Slowly, but surely, John got better. It was the small things at first, barely noticeable. He would talk more – notably without being prompted. He'd actually gone on a few walks with Clint which Sherlock was not invited on. The detective had no idea what the two talked about in their time spent together, but he didn't press too hard to find out. He was aware Clint wasn't all too open about his mind control experience and it seemed to be doing John good, so he didn't question it.

For a while.

As the second week of Agent Barton's stay came close to ending Sherlock had to ask. As soon as John left the room Sherlock turned to Clint. "What have you and John been discussing?" Clint was taken aback by the abrupt question. "It seems to be working and I take it you'll be leaving soon." Clint slowly began to nod his head. "Would you care to share your findings so I can continue helping him after you're gone?"

Clint paused, trying to organize his thoughts. "The thing that helped me the most when I was recovering from what that grease-bag Norse god did to me," he sneered, "was open ended questions. Nat would—" He stopped and corrected himself. "Agent Romanoff would constantly ask me to make decisions. Which mug did I want, did I want my eggs fried or scrambled, did I prefer red or blue – those kinds of questions. Easy, simple, but they forced me to use my free will and make a decision. As I kept getting better the questions got a little more complicated. Did I prefer cats or dogs and why, if I had a dog what would I name it and why, what was my favorite food, if I was in any other job what would it be, and so forth. They weren't choosing between two options anymore, it was explaining my thoughts and feelings."

"And where are you with John in this process?"

Agent Barton looked towards the stairs, checking to see if John was coming yet. He turned back to Sherlock and shook his head. "Obviously what happened to John was much,  _much_  more severe than what happened to me, so we've been taking it pretty slow. I'm just starting to ask some more open ended questions, but offering some choices still doesn't hurt." Sherlock nodded along. They both heard John's door open. "I'll probably stick around another couple of days, so I'll let you know how things are right before I leave."

John walked into the room, jacket slung over his arm. Clint turned and grinned. "Ready?" John nodded. Clint smiled back at Sherlock. "We'll see you later, alright?"

"Alright."

Boredom was nothing new to Sherlock Holmes. A hated enemy, sure, but not new. As soon as Clint and John left on any other day he had to stop himself from asking Lestrade for a case. He couldn't do it without John and John was by no means ready for a case yet. But Sherlock knew today would be different – his boredom would be short lived. He picked up his violin to pass the time.

Not even an hour later, he heard footsteps on the staircase. He didn't even bother to turn around. As soon as the visitor entered the sitting room he stopped playing. "Captain Rogers," he greeted. The figure halted. Sherlock turned around to face the super soldier in front of him. Sherlock gave his bow a twirl and set it and the violin back in the case.

"You were expecting me?" Steve asked. The rogue Avenger had definitely changed. His hair was longer, not as well kept, and he'd grown a beard. He wore a baseball cap and had a pair of sunglasses in his hand.

"Eventually. There's apple cake in the fridge if you'd care for any." The hero was actually speechless. Sherlock made his way over to his chair. "How's being one of the world's most wanted treating you?"

Steve watched the detective closely. "Not bad." He shook his head. "Clint did say you were good—"

"Naturally. So Agent Barton  _was_  the one to contact you. Figured as much."

"Did he tell you I was coming?"

"No."

Steve's eyes narrowed. "Then how did you—"

"It was only a matter of time seeing what happened to John was an attempt of recreating what happened to your best friend." Sherlock indicated to the seat across from him. After a moment of hesitation, Steve made his way over to the chair. "I take it you have some information to provide," Sherlock said.

Steve began to nod. "When I heard what happened…I had to check it out." He ran a hand through his hair. "I've never encountered anyone who's been through anything close to what Bucky has. There were others like him, others working for Hydra, but they were killed." He leaned back into the seat. "Now obviously what happened to your friend isn't  _near_  what Bucky went through since Hydra was completely successful and had him for seventy years, but…it's close. Similar, I mean." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "I can't offer you everything I know, but I can give some advice."

"Agents Barton has already given his…two cents."

The super solider raised an eyebrow. "His question method?" He nodded. "It's a good place to start, that's for sure. He knows a thing or two about brainwashing and mind control," he ended softly.

"The New York invasion, yes?"

"Yeah." Steve wrung his hands. "It was pretty hard on him. He pulled through alright though." Suddenly, Steve made a face. "You looked familiar, but I know if we'd been formally introduced I would have remembered you."

Sherlock nodded. "We encountered each other during the New York invasion. You – quite literally – shielded us, then got us to safety."

Steve's eyes lit up with a hint of recognition. "You know, that's probably it. Yeah, I think I remember that." He nodded, trying to remember the details of the encounter. "What were you two doing in New York?"

"Bit of a long story. SHIELD wanted to hire us but there a bit of time travel involved."

"Ah." Steve chose not to question it and the two of them fell into a short silence. Eventually, Steve leaned forward. "So it's the same, huh? Codes, trigger words, assignments, the whole works?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered quickly.

"So I take it there's a book."

"There is."

"Can I see it?"

Sherlock sat straight up. " _No_ ," he snapped. "The book stays with me.  _No one_  is to look at it but me."

Steve seemed unfazed as a small smile crept onto his face nonetheless. "Good." He got to his feet, slipping his hat back on his head. "I have no doubt you're doing the best you can. And it's a good idea to keep that book stashed away, although it would be an even better idea to destroy it altogether." He gave a polite nod and headed out the door without another word.

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Agent Barton only stayed another two days. The day before he left, two familiar faces showed up at the door. A huge grin spread across Clint's face. "Hey, kid! Long time no see!"

Taria and Vi had stopped by to visit. No one had seen the two teens since the telekinetic attack and for a while it was cause for some worry. Taria had ended up at SHIELD medical, Vi by her side, but after they were discharged it was like they'd fallen off the map. No doubt if SHIELD was desperate enough they could have found them, but the organization decided it was best to let the two kids have a bit of peace.

Vi gave a kind enough smile to everyone and Taria accepted Clint's hug. "Man, where have you two been?" The agent asked.

"Takin' it easy," Vi said simply. "Taria still had quite a bit to learn about life on earth an', frankly, I needed a break from all o' the mutant chaos." She shrugged. "But we figured it's been long enough and decided to drop in an' say hi. Didn't expect you to be 'ere though."

Clint laughed. "Well, you know me – I'm unpredictable."

Vi just rolled her eyes, fighting back a smile. "To be completely honest I don't actually  _really_  know ya."

"Well that's a shame, isn't it?" He shook his head. "I'm actually heading out tomorrow, so I'm not going to around for much longer."

"Well, safe travels, I guess," Vi finished lamely.

The more Vi and Taria talked the more obvious it became to everyone in the room that Vi and Taria had become an item. No surprising given what had happened and what Vi had said last time they saw the two. They were a good match. Odd, but you'd get that no matter who you paired a shapeshifter or an alien warrior princess with.

Vi and Taria hung around for a couple of days, popping in during the afternoon "just to say hi." John remembered them. Over the next few days, things got a lot better. John was still…not quite himself, but it seemed the memories were all there. Everything was there, just not organized.

Sherlock was still hesitant to take cases. He couldn't help but accept some cold cases that Lestrade sent his way, but he wouldn't take anything that would require action on his part. He despised it and desperately wanted things to go back to normal, but he knew John wasn't ready. After everything that had happened, he wasn't willing to put John on the line for the sake of a case. But he knew he'd be able to return to crime solving again. Soon, maybe.

Eventually.


End file.
